


bread again

by LavaGills



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavaGills/pseuds/LavaGills
Summary: Poussey lives.The world continues to suck, but not as much as it would have otherwise.
Relationships: Brook Soso/Poussey Washington, Tasha "Taystee" Jefferson & Poussey Washington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. kneeling at the river's edge and tempting

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant to be a lot longer, but then I lost inspiration and forgot about it for years. Oh well, it is what it is.

There’s a protest.

There’s a guard, and he has a knee. He uses it.

There’s a period of time, too long, that he continues to use it.

There’s the moment of realization, and the prison stills, frozen in time by the unifying power of dread and the sense that something has gone terribly wrong. Poussey takes a ragged breath, and the moment bursts.

\----

They take her away in an ambulance. The siren flashes blue and red against the pavement; it had rained the night before, and the puddles light up like skies of fireworks. Brook, face pressed against the glass of a window, watches the ambulance peel away and the lights dim. She turns back to the room.

Although the cafeteria is crowded, no one stands in the spot where Poussey had laid (Not laid, was forced down, Brook can’t help but think, but she shakes that train of thought away.) It’s like cursed ground. The guards skirt around it as they walk the length of the room, patrolling as if this was a normal day and the inmates happened to be a little rowdy.

She sees Caputo talking to a young guard, the guard, whose face is flushed and eyes are rimmed with red. Nausea rises thick in Brook’s stomach, and she tucks her face into her shoulder so she doesn’t have to look at him.

Eventually the guards realize that they can’t just let all the inmates stand in the cafeteria all night, so they start separating them by dorm and escorting the groups one by one out of the cafeteria. Everyone is surprisingly obedient, shuffling like cattle as the guards guide them down the hallways. Brook watches her feet as she takes one step in front of the other, knowing that she’s moving but not exactly sure who’s controlling her legs. She sits down on her bunk but doesn’t lie down, feeling too wrung out to sleep.

Chang is already asleep. She can hear her other two bunkmates gossiping, like what had just happened was just a crazy plot twist in a book, and she opens her mouth to yell, scold, say something—but her throat tightens before she can. She’s on the verge of sobbing; she hadn’t realized it until that very moment, but suddenly the reality is pressing down on her like a freighter ship. She wants to cry because Poussey is injured, Poussey’s going to the hospital, something is happening to Poussey and she doesn’t know what or if she’s going to be okay or what’s going to happen. Her breath hitches. A guard had picked her up and hauled her off a table, so she didn’t see Poussey get hurt. The tight circle of inmates around Poussey prevented Brook from seeing a guard performing CPR on her still body. She had seen the ambulance, but the walls had hidden Poussey once again.

That’s the worst part, she thinks; she knows what happened but has no proof of it to orient herself around, to obsess over, to break apart and put together in a way that makes sense. She feels confused and adrift, like Poussey was flung into some other realm and she was left behind in reality grasping at air. Some distant part of her brain notices that her bunkmates are staring at her, but the observation matters as little to her as the feel of scratchy blanket under her palms; irrelevant, easily dismissed.

She’s so caught up in her own head that she doesn’t notice the figure hovering next to her bed. A hand touches her shoulder and she jerks, surprised, but calms again when she sees the gentle gaze of Norma. She had been a comfort, once, Brook remembers, and she can’t bring herself to push away any comfort now. She doesn’t protest as Norma crawls into her bunk and gathers her into her arms, tucking her chin over her head. Brook, desperate for touch, grips her arms tight against her.

“You are the light,” Norma sings, and Brook wants to say no, that’s Poussey, but she doesn’t. She just cries.

She cries for a long time.

\----

The next day she has a headache and her face feels as if it was encrusted in salt. She sits at the lunch table, trying to ignore the scratchiness in her throat as she shovels watery “scrambled eggs” into her mouth. An uncomfortable curiosity compels her to stare at the spot where it happened, but she forces her gaze away every time she notices it drifting. Gossip flows through the prison as effectively as contraband, and they’ve all heard plenty about Poussey and her situation. None of them dare talk about it, though.

Suzanne is almost uncharacteristically silent, staring into space and only eating when Taystee nudges her. Taystee herself seems to be trying to act normal, but the constant furrow between her brows is testament to how badly she’s affected.

For a while Janae and Cindy hold a whispered conversation about how Janae had trouble sleeping, and Brook knows not to interrupt, but even that fizzles away and they’re left in silence. It’s awkward, Brook thinks, loath as she is to admit it. The lack of jokes and smiles is a heavy presence at the table, almost as pressing as the conspicuously empty chair.

So Brook starts to talk, because that’s what she’s always done.

“This is horrible,” she says, pushing the scraps of her food around with a fork. “I can’t believe that we’re all just sitting around like something terrible didn’t happen.” “That’s the power of prison food,” Cindy says. “It numbs your brain so you can’t do shit but sit and mindlessly eat more.”

“And can you even believe that the guard isn’t fired yet?” Brook asks. “He’s on leave. How can they just put him on leave? Do they think that if we don’t see him that we’ll forget what he did and how there are no consequences for his actions?”

“Same shit happened with Pornstache McRapist,” Cindy says, twirling her fork. “He got a slap on the wrist then came back like nothing ever happened. If the girl didn’t get preggers then he probably would’ve got off scot-free.”

Brook makes an angry sound low in her throat.

“Listen, Brook. She’s alive. Why don’t you concentrate on that,” Taystee says, putting a hand on her wrist.

“Oh, so that makes everything ok. Don’t worry, she’s alive, so he’s totally off the hook!"

“I didn’t fucking say that,” Taystee says, jerking her hand back. “You better not twist my words right now, or so help me…”

“I’m not trying to twist your words,” Brook says, “But right now it seems like I’m the only one who’s the least bit upset with how it’s being handled—“

Taystee slams her fists on the table and Brook stutters to a stop, abruptly aware that she crossed a line.

“Will you stop fucking talking about things you don’t know nothing about? You’re not the only one who’s upset! I knew her longer than you. She’s my best friend.” Taystee said, voice cracking. “She’s my best friend and of course I’m fucking scared but this shit happens. I lost friends before, okay, good friends, and for a second I thought….” Taystee trailed off. Janae and Cindy duck their heads over their food as if they could avoid the tension if they just didn’t look; Brook, on the other hand, can’t tear her eyes away.

Taystee took a breath, steeling herself. “So fucking excuse me if I want a millisecond to be grateful and eat my goddam gruel in peace.” Taystee jabs her fork into the food forcefully. Suzanne, sitting next to her, looks at her with wide eyes, then to Brook, then back to Taystee. Brook silently hopes that she doesn’t say anything because she feels one wrong word away from breaking down. Cindy and Alison make “oh shit” faces at each other, but they too turn back to their food. Janae scowls at her plate.

They finish their meals in silence, and Brook can’t help but feel that she lost her right to sit at the table. Do any of them even like her? They were just tolerating her because of Poussey, and now that she’s in the—not here, maybe they don’t see the point of putting up with her anymore. Maybe they secretly think she’s obnoxious and talks too much. Maybe they blame her for what happened. The thought that they wouldn’t be entirely wrong turns her stomach. She’s not finished, but she gets up and throws her plate away anyway.

\----

Caputo calls for an assembly.

The inmates file into the chapel, and Brook finds a seat close to the back. To her surprise, Taystee and her friends sit next to her. They do it unthinkingly, without acknowledging her as they sit down, so Brook tries not to read too much into it; still, it’s nice she doesn’t have go through this totally alone.

On stage, Caputo adjusts the microphone clears his throat.

“I want to acknowledge that there are tensions in the prison right now,” he says, bracing his hands on either side of the podium. “But I can promise you that we are doing our best to understand the reasons for this tragic situation.”

“I know the reason, it’s that fucking guard,” Janae mutters mutinously.

“This prison is equipped to deal with inmate on inmate violence, but it’s harder to anticipate incidents of guard on inmate violence,” Caputo continues. “I’m sure we are all aware that recently there was an unfortunate incident of this type. Because of this, there will be mandatory group counseling meetings where everyone can talk out their frustrations in a safe environment.”

“I got a frustration—the guard isn’t fired yet!” Cindy yells, and a chorus of “yeahs!” erupts from the crowd.

“Ladies,” Caputo says, and then pauses. “We are the staff and you are the inmates. We do not owe you any explanation of our internal processes.”

A murmur spreads across the crowd, and a guard’s face twists angrily. He steps forward, leaning over the podium and bringing the microphone to his mouth.

“Quiet! We will not tolerate any dissent. Quite frankly, it was the inmates acting up that caused this situation in the first place.”

“Oh hell no,” Taystee spits under her breath. Even Caputo looks uncomfortable at that; most of the guards, however, look smug and vindicated. Brook sees the guard that bodily dragged her off the table smirk; she wishes she kicked him even harder.

The guard steps back and relinquishes control back to Caputo.

“The information on when and where your session is will be told to you by…” The speech continues. Tight with tension, Brook replays his words in her head, letting her anger bubble and fester in her stomach. Acting up. Fuck him.

She leaves the room, and as she walks she realizes can’t remember anything Caputo said. She grimaces. It doesn’t matter, anyway, since she knows that he didn’t give them any actual information about Poussey or her condition. He didn’t even talk about what happened, always obliquely referring to her injury as “the incident” or “the situation.”

They start walking back to their dorms, Brook already planning to spend the rest of her day curled up in bed, when suddenly Taystee stops. Unsure if she should keep walking or not, Brook pauses for a moment, looking at the others; they all look as confused as she does.

“He didn’t even say her name.” Taystee says. “He didn’t even say her name!” In an abrupt movement she steps to the side of the hallway, and starts to kick the wall hard and beat at it with her palms. Her face is crumpled up, deep wrinkles running across on her forehead and down her cheeks. She looks angry. More than that, though, she looks sad.

“He didn’t even say her name,” she says again, quieter, her volley slowing. They all stand there watching her, frozen, unaware of the guard rounding the corner.

“Inmate!” he yells, walking forward, and Brook’s head jerks to look at him in surprise. Taystee hits the wall a final time then backs up, hands in the air.

“I ain’t doing nothing!”

“Bullshit,” he says. “That’s federal property you’re damaging.”

“She didn’t damage it at all,” Janae cuts in, and the guard shoots her a quelling a look. Janae seethes, but goes silent.

“We’re in a situation of high alert,” he says, “And any inmate who’s riling up emotions is subject to higher scrutiny. So tell me, do you feel like spending the rest of your days in the shu?” Out of the corner of her eye, Brook sees Janae’s jaw clench.

“No.” Taystee says. Brook is glad that she’s not on the receiving end of that glare, but the guard continues unaffected.

“What was that, inmate?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s right.”

He looks around, eyes passing up the shaken up Janae and trying-to-act-natural Cindy. His gaze lands on Brook, and he looks her up and down; her skin crawls, but she forces herself to stay still.

“This isn’t a situation you wanna get messed up in, sweetheart. Why don’t go back to your dorm and hang out with some of the nice women there.” “Uh.” She can’t say anything else. She can’t move.

Luckily, the guard doesn’t wait to see her leave to go to her dorm and the “nice women” who apparently live there. He nods decisively, as if deeming the situation handled, and walks back to wherever he came from. Taystee, posture stiff, pulls her hoodie over her head, turns, and walks in the opposite direction; Cindy and Janae follow her.

They don’t spare her a glance as they disappear down the hallway.

\----

Brook spends the next few days in a haze.

She rarely goes to meals. Luckily her experiences with hunger strikes numbed her to the gnawing in her stomach, almost turns it into a strange sort of comfort. It’s familiar in a world where suddenly everything seems hazy and strange. When she does manage to eat the food tastes like ash in her mouth; it didn’t taste too good before either, so she doesn’t worry too much about it.

She spends a lot of time in the library. She walks up and down the stacks; she lies on the floor, back pressed up against their spines. She reads a German book—well, read is too strong a word, but she flips through the pages and sounds out the words. Eventually she closes her eyes and just holds the book closer to her chest. The words always sounded beautiful when Poussey said them, but they sound awkward and harsh coming from her own mouth.

One time, as she sits outside, sniffling into the sleeves of her sweatshirt, she finds herself thinking about Poussey’s hooch. She grabs the bag from its hiding place, sets it between her legs, and brings a corner up to her mouth. It tastes vile but strong, and Brook stops after a couple sips. The idea of Poussey coming back and finding out that she drank all of her hooch makes her heart thud painfully against her chest. One alcohol problem in a relationship is more than enough. Besides, she’s already got her depression; adding alcoholism to the list of her problems almost seems greedy.

The days pass sluggishly, and she’s just as alone as she was when she tried to kill herself. She’s pretty sure that she doesn’t want to die, the fact remains that there aren’t any people in her life that are looking out for her right now. Taystee and her friends don’t come looking for her, so she doesn’t go looking for them. Since the day of the assembly her conversations have been limited to saying what she wants in the dinner line and occasionally telling Leanne to fuck off.

Brook thought that laundry duty might be tense and awkward, but honestly it’s just boring. She goes through the motions mindlessly. As she washes the guards uniforms, she wonders if one of them belonged to him. She thinks about spitting on them, just in case, but her mouth is too dry.

She’s told her first counseling session is scheduled for the end of the week.

It’s not Berdie, so there’s no way that anything that happens will help her. On the bright side, though, it’s not going to be Healy, so Brook forces herself to go.

\----

Brook sits in a hard plastic chair, arms tightly crossed. Inmates file in, jostling each other and laughing and scraping the chairs against the floor. The noise teeters on the edge of comfortingly distracting and a metal spike jammed into her brain. She glares halfheartedly as Chapman sits down besides her, putting her hands on her knees.

“Hello, Soso.” She says.

“Hi.” Brook says flatly. A pause.

“Sorry if this is intrusive, but how are you feeling?” Chapman’s eyebrows are pressed together in concern, and anger swells.

“It is fucking intrusive.” Brook says.

“Right. Sorry.” There’s a moment of silence, then Chapman speaks up again.

“I just want you to know that it must be so hard to go through what you’re going through right now, and I wasn’t really a good friend in the past, so I want you know that you can talk to me.”

“You weren’t a good friend in the past? You weren’t a friend, period. I don’t think you ever even liked me.”

“That’s not…entirely true,” Chapman says. “Actually, you kinda reminded me of myself when I first came here.”

“You’ve done a bunch mean stuff,” Brook says. “But that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said.”

Chapman laughs, only a little awkward about it.

“About the mean stuff, I am sorry for that. I’m trying to be a better person and I’ve realized that means owning up to my mistakes.”

Brook looks at her. Chapman seems to be genuine, and it might just be her own guilt pushing her to be nice, but Brook doesn’t really care.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you like me?” She asks, hating how vulnerable it makes her sound. She needs to know though. Chapman bites her lip, and for a second Brook thinks she’s going to lie.

“You were so naïve,” she says instead. “So totally unaware of the reality of prison, and for someone who just spent time in solitary for beating another inmate’s face in, it was just…annoying.”

“Annoying.”

“Yeah. You weren’t a bad person, but you could not stop talking and acting like we were friends and referencing your time doing all those bullshit volunteer things. Ah, no offense.”

“None taken,” Brook says, turning her face away. “Guess I had to learn about prison reality sooner or later.”

Chapman looks like she wants to say something else, but the counselor walks to the front of the room and the conversation ends; she turns her head to whisper something to Vause who’s sitting on her other side. They’re holding hands, Brook notices. How wonderful for them.

The counselor holds up a feelings chart to all the inmates, and Brook closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at it.

\----

Brook gets the urge to do some math.

The night before she couldn’t stop herself from imagining Poussey’s low voice, rumbling out the words you’re a celestial body, lips pressing against her neck, breath throwing up goosebumps. Brook had giggled and tried to brush her off, embarrassed. Not wanting to be distracted from helping the other inmate.

If she could relive that moment she would turn around and kiss Poussey right on the lips, swallow her beautiful words, wrap her arms around her neck, bystanders be damned. She would hold her in the library and not let her leave. Tell her that they don’t have to protest, don’t have to change the world, only have to exist in their little corner of joy.

The entire dream is impossible. She can’t travel back in time. But the prison does have math books, and that’s something, so she forces herself out of bed and makes her way to the library, the path so familiar that she’s only shaken out of her daze when she almost trips over someone on her way in.

Suzanne, lying on the floor with a pile of books on her chest, raises her hand.

“Hi.”

“Hi?” Brook looks around. None of Poussey’s other friends are in sight. “What are you up to?”

Suzanne reaches over and grabs another book from the lowest shelf and places it on the pile.

“Testing.”

“Testing what?”

“How much weight it takes until I can’t breathe.” Suzanne frowns, grabbing yet another book. “It’s more than I thought.”

“Stop it,” Brook says harshly, knocking the books off her chest with her foot. “What is wrong with you?” Suzanne tries to gather the books back onto her chest, but Brook bends over and pushes them off again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, voice tight.

Suzanne whines, but seems to accept that her little experiment is over; she sits up and wraps her arms around her knees.

“I don’t know,” she says in a low voice. Then, higher, “I don’t know. I don’t know! I don’t! I don’t!” With each word Suzanne hits her forehead with her fist. Brook stares, feeling utterly out of her depth.

“I’m going to—“ get a guard, she thinks, then flinches. “Get Taystee. I’ll be right back, Suzanne, don’t do anything.”

She finds Taystee lying in her bunk, a book propped up on her bent legs. Brook sees a glowing wand extending past the khaki of her knee. She looks relaxed, and Brook almost hesitates to interrupt, but she speaks anyway.

“Taystee, you need to come to the library. I think Suzanne’s having some sort of…something.”

Taystee puts the book aside and pinches her nose, eyes closed shut tightly.

“Uh…” Brook looks from side to side. She has no idea what she’ll do if Taystee doesn’t deal with it.

“Shit, I’m coming, I’m coming.” Taystee hops out of bed and Brook follows her to the library silently. When they arrive Suzanne is in the same place, but her hands are gripping clumps of her hair painfully tight. She rocks back and forth slightly.

“Suzanne, what are you doing?” Taystee asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, and Brook shoots her an alarmed look, afraid that she’s going to start chanting and hitting herself again. She doesn’t, though; she’s perfectly still, eyes locked on the floor.

“You don’t know? Cause it looks to me like you were having another episode.”

“It’s not an episode, it’s an experiment.”

“A what now?”

“Experiment. See how many books I can put on my chest until I can’t breathe.” She adopts the voice of the owl from the tootsie pop commercial. “Let’s find out! One, two—“

“Suzanne, I know the answer,” Tayste interrupts. “You can’t pile enough books on yourself to stop your breathing. The stack would fall before it got to that weight.”

“Ok,” Suzanne says, seemingly turning the thought over in her mind, “Then I guess I’ll just pull the book shelf down on top of me—“

“No you won’t, Suzanne. Dammit, I can only deal with one friend in the hospital right now!” Taystee’s voice cracks high and Brook’s throat tightens painfully.

“I get that you’re going through some shit but so am I,” Taystee continues, “Don’t fucking do this to me, okay, don’t make me worry about you too. I swear to God, I can’t handle that much shit clogging up my heart right now.” Her eyes are wide and wet, and a few strands of hair fell out of her braid and hovered around her face. She looks haggard, like she’s been having trouble sleeping. Brook feels a rush of sympathy so potent it hurts.

A moment passes. Taystee takes in a deep, wavering breath.

“You gotta promise me you ain’t gonna do this shit any more,” she says. Suzanne, with a look caught halfway between confused and concerned, stumbles to her feet and awkwardly wraps her arms around Taystee.

“Ok,” she says, and pats her back once.

“Promise me. Please”

“I promise.”

Taystee untangles herself from the hug and wipes her sleeve across her face. She clears her throat.

“Ok, good. Now get your ass to dinner.”

Suzanne nods, twirls in place once, as if looking for the door, then points her finger at the exit and starts walking towards it. Taystee watches her for half a second, turns to Brook, nods, and then starts to follow.

Brook wrings her hands together. She doesn’t want to upset Taystee’s emotional state, but she can’t let her go without asking.

“Hey, Taystee?” Brook asks quietly. Taystee sighs and stops.

“No news, but he finally called her father, so I guess that’s progress,” Taystee says. She lifts her hands as if going to pat Brook on the shoulder, but she just lets it fallto her side again. “I’ll let you know, ok?”

“Ok. Thank you,” Brook says. “And if you ever need to, like, talk about it, then you can always come to me.”

Taystee smiles, soft and kind of sad.

“Yeah, talking shit out ain’t exactly my style. But uh, thanks.”

She turns and leaves.

The next day Brook sits at their table again, and no one says anything. She supposes that’s good enough.

\----

A week and a half after Poussey was taken to the hospital, Brook decides to try some lucid dreaming. There still hasn’t been any news on Poussey, even though Taystee comes to lunch every day and regales them about what she managed to find out. So far it’s been a lot of the same, phone calls spoken in whispers and lots of official-looking paperwork that Caputo never lets anyone else see. She tried to get access to Caputo’s computer again, she says, but there haven’t been any opportunities. After years of inmates being able to wander out of the prison and contraband flowing like milk and honey, Caputo chooses now to be security-conscious. Typical.

Regardless, the lack of news is starting to sound a lot like bad news.

Her own private picture show sounds really appealing right now.

At 9 o’ clock, she lays down in her bed. She pulls her blanket over her head, feels hot and claustrophobic, and pulls it down again. Eyes closed, hands tucked under her cheek, she starts trying to summon pictures to the forefront of her mind.

Poussey smiling at her, lake water lapping against her cheeks. Poussey smiling as she reads a book in German, voice low and incredibly attractive. Poussey smiling and closing one eye to take a shot with a basketball, tongue screwed out—laughing as she misses completely. Poussey smiling with her arms wrapped around her shoulders, talking about how they’re gonna go to Amsterdam one day.

Poussey smiling as she stands on a cafeteria table.

Her breath hitches and her heart clenches with a sudden, sharp sadness. Maybe she should try to think of something other than Poussey, Brook thinks, and guilt fills her immediately.

It’s not wrong to want a temporary distraction from her distress, is it? She tries to think of warm oceans, the taste of pecans, the shine of midday sunlight on the leaves of a tree. But the thought of Poussey hovers like a ghost at the back of her mind: clean ocean water replaced with murk of the lake, food with the press of her tongue, sunlight with the gleam of her dark eyes. Lucid dreaming only works when she’s relaxed, Brook reminds herself, but her stomach cramps and her muscles feel tight. The breathing exercises Berdie taught her do nothing.

Resigned, she opens her eyes. In contrast to the rich colors of the back of her eyelids, her dorm looks awash in a pale blue. She doesn’t fall asleep for a long time

\----

“Hey lesbian,” Chang says. “I have food.”

“I actually identify as pansexual,” Brook mumbles into her pillow. She feels a weight on her back and she sits up, confused. An orange rolls off her body onto the floor. She picks it up.

“You eat it,” Chang says.

“Yeah, I know,” Brook says. She presses a nail into the rind of the orange, and the scent of citrus assaults her nose. Mouth dry, she lies back down.

“You gonna cry again?” Chang asks bluntly. Brook rolls over sulkily, orange still clutched in her hand.

“Maybe.”

“Pah,” Chang says, shuffling to the exit. “Crying does nothing. Come to me when you’re ready for revenge.”

“What?” Brook asks, but Chang is already gone, her hunched back blending in with the beige uniforms of the rest of the inmates. She’s alone in her dorm; the two girls from the top bunks are at dinner, along with half of the block. Brook couldn’t bring herself to go, but the silence and stillness of her dorm is making her chest hurt. She closes her eyes, and—

“Yo, sleeping beauty!” a voice. Loud. Cindy, Brook thinks, stumbling towards consciousness. She opens her eyes to glare. The bright fluorescent bulbs make them tear up, so some of the effect is probably lost.

“What do you want?” She asks, pushing herself into a sitting position. The orange falls onto the floor again. Brook lets it rolls away.

“Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the prison,” Cindy says, casually leaning against the steel frame of her bed.

“Oh, so you’re just here to remind me I’m in prison. I know, thanks.”

“Wait, we’re in prison?” Cindy asks sarcastically. “I just thought beige uniforms were the new trend.”

“Ha,” Brook says dully. Cindy rolls her eyes but doesn’t respond. Instead, she pulls up the hem of her sweatshirt and a cascade of food falls onto the mattress. Brook blinks.

“What is this?”

“Consolation,” Cindy says. “We did the same shit when cornrows died.”

“Who?”

“I guess it’s before your time.” She sounds tired. Maybe even sad. “Back in the old days when a group lost someone, all the inmates chipped in to get them some food. Cheeto stained fingers are our black veils.”

“Poussey isn’t dead,” Brook says, pushing the pile of food away with the heel of her hand. Cindy scuffs a toe against the floor.

“Yeah, that’s what they’re telling us.”

“She isn’t,” Brook insists. Cindy is quiet as she inspects her hands, picking a piece of dirt from underneath her ring finger.

“Just eat your damn food,” She says finally and leaves, tucking her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she ambles down the hallway and out of Brook’s sight. Brook looks at the food, eyes burning. She thought Chang was trying to be nice earlier—was she just following some rule of prison etiquette that Brook didn’t know? God, was she trying to tell her that Poussey was dead?

Brook picks up a bag of cheetos and throws it on the floor. Her bunkmate rounds the corner and looks at it.

“That’s a perfectly good bag of Cheetos,” she says.

“I don’t want it.”

“If you ain’t gonna eat, I am,” she says, picking up the bag. “No use letting good food go to waste.”

“It’s not wasteful if you’re making a point.” Brook says.

“That’s stupid,” Her bunkmates says, and dumps cheetos in her mouth.

\----

Brook folds laundry. Outside, she hears voices.

“Man, how’d you even hear that shit?”

“I got sources. Fucking loads of sources. Oodles, in fact.”

“Nobody fucking says oodles.”

“I just fucking did bitch.”

“Oh shut up, both of you,” a third voice snaps. “This is bad news.”

“What, you sorry to see her go?”

“No, but some of these bitches gonna be angry when they find out,”

Brook doesn’t know if they’re even talking about Poussey; they could be talking about anyone in the world, and her mind could just be jumping to conclusions, falling into the hole of confirmation bias or whatever it’s called.

Brook knows this, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing down the shirt in her hands and walking out into the hallway.

Outside, the three haggard looking white women, unfamiliar tattoos scattered up and down their arms, are leaning up against the wall and chatting. One of them has a tattoo of a turtle on her forearm; another has her hair in a high, uncomfortably tight looking ponytail. The last one looks disturbingly normal, but there’s something in her stance or her eyes that puts Brook on edge. They aren’t the racists who harassed them at movie night, but similar enough that they probably run in the same group. Brook, without stopping to think, walks up to them.

“Hey, I’m sorry, but I thought I overheard you talking about what happened. I was just wondering what exactly you heard? I’m just, like, curious, you know.” She bites her lip to keep herself from saying anything else. The inmates look at her. Logging how she looks, making assumptions.

“What are you? Like, half and half?” ponytail asks.

Brook is too tired to bristle, so she just nods.

“50% ain’t good enough for me,” turtle mutters. The last one scoffs.

“Round up, bitch.”

With the matter decided, they wave her into their little cluster and she leans in, biting the inside of her cheek. What’s the chance of them actually knowing new information? Higher than none, which is too much. She’ll always be wondering if she doesn’t find out.

“Yeah, we were talking about that girl who was sent to the hospital,” the leader says. “Word is she’s dead, and I believe it,” Ponytail pipes up. “Heard it from one of the guards, you don’t survive something like that.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Brook says. She thinks she might be smiling awkwardly, but she honestly isn’t sure.

“She was the size of a smurf or some shit,” turtle snorts. “Yeah, she’s a fucking pancake.”

Ponytail squeezes her hands together and blows a raspberry.

“I’m just kinda disappointed it didn’t happen in the prison,” turtle muses. “Would be nice for something exciting to happen for once.”

“Oh, oh,” the leader says suddenly, elbowing Brook in the side, eyes glimmering. “You wanna hear the best part?”

“No, I don’t.” Brook takes a step back. The three women look at her oddly.

“I, uh—I have to go.” Her voice sounds faint.

She walks away, and she can hear vaguely racist remarks follow her back into the laundry room; she would be offended if she weren’t already so horrified.

The worst part is that she wanted to hear the “best part”. The worst part is how desperately she didn’t want to hear the best part.

Brook has to know more, but she knows she’ll only feel worse if she does. It’s like kneeling at a river’s edge, desperately trying to lap at the water without falling in. She’s so thirsty but she can feel her feet slipping in the mud. She’s so thirsty, but not enough to risk drowning. Not yet, anyway.

\----

She goes back to her dorm to find someone sitting on her bed.

“Hey, Norma,” Brook says weakly, sitting down beside her. Norma smiles, holding up a stack of candy bars in her hands. She places them on her bedside table and gives them a satisfied tap. Brook’s throat goes tight.

“I don’t want those.”

Norma gives her a concerned look. She shoves a hand into a pocket and draws a slip of paper, which she presses into Brook’s hands. Her fingers are warm against her knuckles; she draws away, and Brook almost tells her to keeping holding, but stops herself in time. The paper reads;

From Norma and others who should’ve been with you in your last time of need.

“Thanks.” Brook says. “But I don’t want those.”

Norma puts her hands on Brook’s cheeks and leans her forehead against hers. She squeezes, once, twice, then draws back. Brook’s eyes burn and she sniffles wetly. She lets Norma pull her into a hug. She stays like that for a long time, wrapped up in Norma’s arms, just crying. She’s pretty sure she gets snot on her shoulder, and some part of her buried beneath the sadness manages to feel gross. At one point she tries to draw back, but then the memory of the last time she cried into Norma’s arms hits her with full force and she throws herself back into the embrace, wracked with sobs. Norma doesn’t sing this time, but she makes low whooshing noises like a toothless kid trying to whistle.

The sky darkens, and Norma leaves to go back to her own bed. Brook waits a few minutes before shoving the candy bars to the back of her dresser and covering them with books. She wouldn’t be able to eat them anyway.

\----

She’s having another crying session in the library when Taystee walks in.

“Yeah, me too,” she says, and sits down next to her. Brook drags a sleeve across her face, trying to dry it but mostly succeeding in smearing snot onto her cheek. Taystee twists her mouth and stares straight ahead.

“I guess we kinda met here, huh?” Brook asks as soon as she trusts her voice not to break. “Or, well, you met me. I was kinda unconscious at the time.”

“Yeah, you were really fucked up.”

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever thanked you for helping keep me out of psych. So. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Taystee shoot her a glance out of the corner of her eye. “And it wasn’t exactly fucking easy. So don’t go messing up all our hard work by falling ass backward into depression, ok?”

“I’d describe it more as head first.”

“Brook.”

“I know,” Brook says, “It’s just hard. Stuck in here every day, walking past places she used to walk past, having no information, not knowing if she’s dead or alive—“

“She’s alive,” Taystee cuts in, eyes wide. “Jesus, Brook, she’s alive.”

“Do you know that?” Brook asks, voice cracking.

“Yeah. She has to be,” Taystee says, and waves her hand when Brook opens her mouth to protest. “I’m not talking about she has to be because I couldn’t handle it if she wasn’t. I’m talking about how I hear half of Caputo’s phone conversation and it would make no damn sense if she wasn’t. For now, at least.”

Relief and anxiety hit Brook like a rough ocean wave. She doesn’t try to fight it, just lets another pathetic sounding sob to fall out of her throat. Taystee puts her head on her bent knees and breathes deeply. Brook manages to calm herself down; she feels a crying headache hovering at the edge of mind.

“Are you…are you okay in there?” Brook asks when she trusts herself to speak. Taystee lifts her head and looks at her, confused.

“You know, with Caputo. I don’t think I could handle being in the same room with him for that long.”

“It sucks, but I think it would suck more not to be there.”

“Oh. I guess I can understand that. Maybe. Not really, actually.”

“It helps me to have shit to do. It’s not much, but it’s more productive than crying in a library.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck, don’t look so sad with those puppy dog eyes,” Taystee says. “It’s just…Poussey’s gonna need us to be strong when she gets back. This shit sucks for us, but it’s probably gonna be more a hundred times worse for her. We gotta be ready.” Taystee looks at her out of the corner of her eye. “You think you’re gonna be ready?”

Brook shrugs.

“I can try to be. But, are you sure she really needs us to be strong? Maybe it would, I don’t know, help her if we were open and vulnerable and that kind of stuff.”

“Open is fine,” Taystee says, “Just don’t put any more shit on her plate than she already has.”

“Right,” Brook says. “Gotcha.”

“Ok, good talk,” Taystee says, patting her on the shoulder.

“We should talk more,” Brook says. “I mean, maybe not now, but in general.”

“Uh, no, I think we’re good where we’re at,” Taystee says, standing up.

“Poussey loves you,” Brook says. Taystee stops, still crouched in the middle of getting up, then plops back down to the floor.

“Uh,” she says.

“I mean, not romantically. Not anymore. She used to, but I’m pretty sure it’s just in a friend way now—“

“Brook, stop, I don’t wanna hear this shit.”

“Wait, I had an actual point.”

“What the fuck is that point?” Taystee asks. “Are you worried about your relationship or something? Because I can assure you, nothing is ever gonna happen between us.”

“I know,” Brook says. “It’s just…Poussey really does love you. And you mean a lot to her, and she talks about you so much, and thinks so highly of you, that I think I might be able to like you too if I had the chance. But I just feel like you’re not giving me that chance.”

Taystee says nothing. Brook sighs.

“The day at the lake, you were the first person to accept me, and I thought that meant we were gonna be friends.”

“Listen, Brook,” Taystee says evenly. “You’re not a bad person. I know that. And I know that Poussey really likes you. But some of the shit you say is ridiculous.”

“Excuse me?”

“Some of the things you worry about are just so ridiculous that it actually annoys me when you worry about them. Like, for a girl who couldn’t get a job except for fast food worker and drug dealer, hearing you say shit about the role of women and secretaries is just such bullshit.”

“It’s a valid concern,” Brook says. Taystee glares at her, and Brook winces.

“So we can’t be friends because I commented on gender roles in the workforce?”

“No, I’m not saying that we can never be friends,” Taystee says. “I’m just saying that being friends might be something we have to work at. And honestly? I just don’t have the fucking energy to work at something like that right now.”

“Friendships shouldn’t be work,” Brook says.

“Ideally, sure,” Taystee says. “But in the real world, sometimes they are.”

“Okay,” Brook says. “I get it.”

A beat of silence.

“Maybe, one day, we can talk about this again,” Brook suggests. “When you have the energy.”

“Yeah,” Taystee says. “Sure. When I do.”

She says when as if she actually means if. She gets up to leave again, and this time Brook doesn’t stop her.

\----

The next day, Suzanne returns to the library. Brook sees her slip in, and thoughts filled with toppled bookshelves, follows her. As soon as she enters she hears another door shut, so she makes her way to the door at the back of the library that leads to the little outside clearing.

Sure enough, Suzanne is outside, frantically pulling leaves off of a low-hanging tree. Her face is drawn tight in either anger or pain, and her movements are jerky. Brook feels concern swoop low in her gut.

“I will HURT you,” Suzanne yells to no one in particular—or maybe at the tree itself, Brook isn’t entirely sure.

“Suzanne?” Brook calls out. Suzanne continues ripping leaves off of the tree.

“Calm down,” Brook tries, but she’s ignored again. Before she can think of what to do, she hears the door open; whirling around, she sees a guard step outside, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What are you two doing out here?” she asks.

“Just taking a break from work,” Brook says. “Right, Suzanne?”

With a guttural sound of pain, Suzanne rips a branch off the tree. Brook looks at her, shocked.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” the guard says with a long-suffering look on her face. “Do I need to take you to psych, inmate?”

“No, no, she’s fine,” Brook says. “Just upset about because the cafeteria ran out of—spinach?”

The guard levels a look at her, and Brook tries to smile convincingly. Beside her, Suzanne puts the branch behind her back.

“There wasn’t any spinach in the cafeteria today,” the guard says.

“That’s because they ran out,” Suzanne says. “Obviously.”

The guard glares, and Suzanne points two fingers at her eyes and then back at the guard, who sighs.

“Yeah, ok, just keep it under control.”

The guard leaves, and Brook huffs out a breath. They were lucky it was a guard who seemed more interested in getting a paycheck than exerting control; she has no idea what would’ve happened if Piscatella had come out.

“Thanks,” Suzanne says, dropping the branch. Brook smiles at her.

“No problem. I mean, you helped me keep out of psych. I’m just returning the favor.”

“Ah yes,” Suzanne says, raising a finger sanctimoniously “an eye for an eye makes the whole world kind.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Brook says. “Um, do you want to talk about it? Whatever it is that you’re going through?”

“I talked with Taystee about it.”

“Oh,” Brook says, throat dry. “That’s good?”

“I should go do that again,” Suzanne says. “Talk to Taystee, that is. Not rip a branch off a tree. I’m not going to do that again.”

“Well, that’s good,” Brook repeats. A pause.

“Okay, good day to you.” Suzanne starts to leave. Brook almost lets her, but her mind flashes back to her conversation with Taystee.

“Wait,” she says, and Suzanne stops in her tracks.

“Maybe you could, I dunno, give Taystee a break? Maybe not talk to her this time.”

“I can’t not talk about my feelings,” Suzanne scoffs. “I mean, I could, but then it gets all tangled up and mangled up inside me and Taystee says that is a bad, bad road to go down.” Suzanne looks at her intently. “We do not want to go down that road.”

“I meant that maybe you could talk to me for a bit,” Brook says. “I feel like we’ve never gotten the chance to get some quality one-on-one time.”

Suzanne, looking confused, looks behind her and then points to herself.

“Um, yeah, you,” Brook says.

“You don’t want to talk to me,” Suzanne says.

“Here’s the thing, I kiiiinda just said I did.”

“No, no, you might think you want to, but then the conversation actually starts and you change your mind and you remember you’re angry at me.”

“What? I’m not angry.”

“Uh, yeah you are,” Suzanne says as if it was obvious.

“Why would I be?

“It was my fault.”

“Your fault.”

“Yeah,” Suzanne says, looking down.

“That wasn’t…” Brook takes a deep, bracing breath. “That wasn’t your fault. It was the guard’s fault, and the prison’s fault, and the prison-industry complex’s fault. But it wasn’t yours.”

“If it wasn’t my fault, then why do I feel like it is?” Suzanne asks, sounding small.

Brook, feeling adrift, laughs nervously.

“Sometimes emotions have nothing to do with reality. They just are.” Brook sighs, rubbing her arm. “Y’know, sometimes I kinda feel like it’s my fault too.”

Suzanne looks at her questioningly.

“We got into a fight,” Brook explains. “If I’d never started going on about how we should all make a change, how peaceful protests can work, if I never accused her of being a—” Oh god, her throat is suddenly tight. “I don’t know, maybe something would’ve been different,” She forces out, and goes quiet.

Suzanne looks at her, eyes wide, as if she was considering something that never crossed her mind before. She reaches over and before Brook can react she has her arms around her. The heels of her palms press against her back; her knuckles brush the ridge of her spine.

Tentatively, Brook brings up her arms as well. Suzanne gives surprisingly good hugs, all warmth and solid presence. Brook rests her chin on Suzanne’s shoulder, blinking her eyes. She’s crying, she can tell. Not sick, heaving crying though, for the first time; gentle crying. The type of crying that takes the bad feelings with it. She lets the tears flow down her face and just holds Suzanne.

\----

Later that day, Taystee comes to the dinner table with a gleam in her eye.

“I got more news on Poussey,” she says as she slides into her seat. Instantly they all stop they all stop, leaning forward. Brook twists her hands together to keep them from shaking.

“Caputo was having a meeting in his office,” Taystee says. “Talking about accessibility issues and shit. Guys, they think P’s gonna be in a wheelchair.”

“I mean… it could be temporary,” Cindy says.

“My aunt was in a wheelchair after getting her appendix removed and she only had to stay in it for, like, a week,” Brook adds, looking hopeful.

“Nah,” Taystee says, shaking her head. “They’re talking about training up inmates to help her out, and if they’re actually willing to drop money on it then they gotta think she’s gonna be in it long enough for it to matter.”

“Well, shit,” Cindy says.

“The important thing is that she’s gonna recover enough to come back,” Taystee says firmly. “Maybe even soon.”

“Training up inmates?” Brook asks.

“Yeah, people to help her around and shit. I can’t be one since I’ve already got my desk job and replacing me would be too much of a hassle. They’re gonna pick Janae though, since she’s her roommate.”

“Oh, fuck,” Janae says, looking nervous.

“Sounds like an official gig,” Alison says. “Probably has better pay.”

“Bet it’s more fun than sewing panties all day,” Cindy says.

“Maybe,” Janae says, and stabs her fork into her peas.

“You keep saying inmates and people,” Brook says. “Is there going to be more than one helper? Because I understand that we all want to help, but I really think that I’d be a good fit. I’ve had experience with wheelchairs when I volunteered at the an elderly care facility back in high school, and the laundry doesn’t really need that many people anyway—“

“This ain’t a job interview,” Taystee interrupts. Suzanne waves her down.

“No, no, I want to hear her credentials,” she says, looking contemplative. “Do you think you’ll get along with your coworkers?”

“I mean, we’ve been dating for a couple months.”

“Do you have paperwork verifying that?” Suzanne asks. Taystee rolls her eyes.

“I’ll talk Caputo and see if I can put in a good word for you,” she says. “Really, though, it’s whatever the fuck the administration decides to do.”

“Poussey’s legs don’t work, are we really sure we want to break her ears too?” Janae cuts in.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, your voice isn’t that terrible.” Brook snipes. Janae sneers at her.

“Moooom, my sisters are fighting again,” Cindy groans, looking to Taystee.

“I deserve some childcare welfare benefits or some shit,” Taystee grumbles into her cup. Janae stands up and stalks out of the cafeteria. Brook angrily fiddles with her fork, scraping the plastic with her nails.

“Why does she hate me so much?” Brook asks.

“Oh, no, she don’t hate you,” Cindy says, “She just really, really don’t like you.”

“Just a tip,” Suzanne stage whispers to her. “Try not to insult her. Might make her like you more.” She taps her head with a knowing look. Brook scowls.

“But she started it!”

“This is the part where Taystee say she’s gonna finish it, right?” Cindy pipes up.

“Fuck no. This is your problem, you figure it out,” Taystee bites out, before getting up and leaving.

“Damn, why is everybody storming off today?”

“How dare you,” Alison says, and she twists out of her chair and walks off.

\----

Sleeve. Sleeve. Fold in half. Toss in pile. Repeat.

Sleeve. Sleeve. Fold in half. Toss in pile. Repeat.

“Hey, uh, Soso” Leanne says. Brook stays silent and keeps folding.

“Soso,” Leanne repeats.

Sleeve. Sleeve. Fold in half. Toss in—

“SOSOOOO!” Angie wails. Brook looks up, and Angie snorts.

“I got her attention.”

Leanne rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and the attention of everyone in a mile radius.”

“Um, I failed geometry,” Angie says.

“Whatever,” Leanne says, looking at Brook again. “We were just, uh, thinking…did she ever tell you where the stuff was?”

“What?”

“Y’know, the stuff.” Angie waggles her eyebrows.

“No, I don’t know,” Brook says, even though she does.

“Why won’t you just tell us?” Leanne asks. “It’s not like she’s around to drink it anyway.”

“Yeah, it’s like, honoring her memory or something.” Angie says.

“We’ll pour one out for her,” Leanne says. “I mean, I’ll pour it into my mouth, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“You’re both disgusting people,” Brook spits. “She’s in the hospital, and all you care about is whether you can drink her hooch or not?

“Uh, yeah, I thought that was obvious,” Angie says, and they both burst out into laughter. Brook slams her hand on the washing machine.

“Fuck you.”

“Language, inmate,” A guard at the door calls, and Brook flushes. Leanne and Angie snicker, turning back to their work. The guard walks in, consulting a piece of paper in his hand.

“I’m looking for Soso,” he says.

“That’s me,” Brook says.

“Oh.” He frowns. “I need you to come with me.”

\----

The guard leads her down a series of hallways before handing her off to Luschek. Janae is already with him, leaning against a wall with crossed arms.

“So, new assignments,” Luschek says. “Lucky you guys.”

“Since when is this your job?” Janae asks.

“Uh, since they found a dead dude in a garden,” Luschek shoots back. “Now no one’s allowed in the electric shack because of the investigation.” Luschek makes a face as if he finds the very idea of the investigation ridiculous.

“New assignments? Am I being transferred out of laundry?” Brook asks, excited.

“Well, kinda,” Luschek says. “You still have your old work duty some days, but you alternate helping Washington. You’ll get more training later, that’s all I know.”

“Did I really have to come halfway across the building just to hear this?” Janae asks.

“Oh, fuck no, not for that,” Luschek says. “I actually have to show you where she’s gonna stay. So you, like, know the way or whatever.”

He starts walking and gestures at them to follow. They silently make their way down another series of hallways. Brook tries to catch Janae’s eyes, but she resolutely looks ahead the entire journey. Finally, Luschek leads them into a secluded area of the prison and grandiosely throws open a door.

“Here’s the room she’s gonna stay in. In all of it’s glory.”

“They’re putting her in Judy King’s old digs?” Janae asks, looking at the room skeptically.

“A-yup. Only the best for our own resident martyr.”

Brook opens her mouth to say something, but stops when the gaunt face of Yoga Jones pops out from behind the doorframe.

“I’m almost done cleaning up,” she says. “Do you know what my next dorm assignment is?”

“Yeah, I gotta figure that out,” Luschek says, suddenly red for some reason. “Uh…go check that shit out I guess.” He leaves, and Brook and Janae share a quick glance; Janae breaks it and strides into the room, and Brook follows her. The room inside is large but strangely bare. There are a few appliances on the shelves and on the floor, but no extra beds or personal pictures or regular prison debris of any kind. It’s a strange contradiction that makes Brook feel a little hollow inside for reasons she can’t quite name. Janae plants herself at the entrance and scowls as Brook goes over to look at the bed.

“Don’t worry, I’m moving out.” Yoga Jones says as she leans against a wall, holding a sack of clothes in her hands. “I don’t want to be here anyway. This room is bad for your soul.”

“Yeah, big room with the best shit. Must really suck,” Janae snorts.

“I’m just saying, it’s never a good idea to give inmates special treatment,” Yoga Jones whines. “I had all these morals, and then suddenly I have a nice room and it all goes to my head.”

“You think getting special treatment for being roomies with a celebrity and getting special care for being fucking injured by a guard are comparable?” Janae snaps.

“Are you shitting me right now?”

“No, that’s not what I meant…” Yoga Jones says, brows furrowed in contrition.

“Uh, that’s what you said,” Janae retorts sharply. Brook messes up the blankets on the bed and refolds them just so she has something to do with her hands.

“I understand how that might’ve come out wrong,” Yoga Jones says, twisting the tie of the sack around her hands and pulling it tight. “But you don’t have to take everything I say the wrong way, okay. You didn’t use to be so—“

“I don’t give a singular fuck what I used to be, ok?” Janae snaps. “Cause I’m not that anymore.”

Janae and Yoga Jones stare at each other, but the tension breaks when the Luschek strolls back into the room, slip of paper in hand.

“Yeah, I found it,” he says, holding it up to the light. “Little fucker was in my pocket the whole time. You’re back in your old dorm.”

“Great,” Yoga Jones says. “Show me where it is?”

“What? It’s not like it moved—“

“Show me.”

“Yeah, sure, what the fuck ever,” Luschek lifts his shoulders in what might’ve been an attempt at a shrug, but he looks like bristling dog. “I’ll be gone for a minute. Try not to die or anything when I’m gone.”

Janae looks at him.

“Fuck. Too soon?” Luschek claps his hands together awkwardly. “Yeah, too soon. Uh, oops. I’ll be back.”

He and Yoga Jones leave.

“What a dumbass motherfucker,” Janae says.

“Yeah,” Brook agrees. She glances over at Janae.

“Ok, so I couldn’t help but notice,” Brook says, “Is there some kind of history between you and Jones?”

“My life ain’t a sordid gossip magazine for you to peruse, ok. We used be friends, now we’re not, that’s it.”

“What? The two of you?” Brook asks. Janae glares at her.

“Sorry, but it is a surprise,” Brook responds.

“She slapped me once,” Janae says, apropos of nothing.

“Oh my god,” Brook says, eyes widening. “Is that how the friendship ended?”

“No,” smirks Janae, “That’s how it started.”

“Sounds like a good foundation for a friendship,” Brook offers. Janae rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, well, it didn’t last long. We run in different groups.”

Before Brook can say anything, Luschek reenters.

“What, you guys are still here?” He asks. “Go back to work.” He makes a shooing gesture with his hands.

Silently, they obey.

\----

As Luschek promised, they do eventually get training.

A few days being shown the room, Brook and Janae are excused from their usual work duty one day and are brought to one of the counselor’s office. A woman in a pantsuit and clunky jewelry comes in, says she’s a representative from some acronym or another, and sets up a powerpoint. They watch it silently, although Janae rolls her eyes pretty much every other slide.

Brook can’t really blame her. The text is dull and forgettable, and the pictures are ridiculous and obviously staged, all of them featuring benign looking white men in clean khaki uniforms.

The men smile brightly at each other as one pushes the other in his wheelchair. Smile as one gets the other a book off the shelf. Smile as they shake hands, arms frozen in a stiff position in front of them. The PowerPoint draws to a close. The woman, leaning against a desk, claps her hands and smiles.

“So, what did we learn?” Her dark red lips stretch into a toothy smile.

“Pretty much help her out. We didn’t need to sit through an entire PowerPoint to learn that.” Janae says, arms crossed. The woman’s smile stays frozen on her face.

“There’s a lot more to it than that! Here,” she says, handing out a pamphlet to each of them. “Read through this. It summarizes the major points and will be invaluable as you transition from just a regular inmate to an official offender care aide.”

Brook opens the pamphlet; the pictures are the same, and brightly colored blocks of text run up and down the sides. One title declares: DEALING WITH EMOTIONAL DISTRESS AND VIOLENCE. Another: OH NO! THE WHEELCHAIR BROKE! WHAT NOW? She shuts the pamphlet.

Janae doesn’t even open hers; the woman turns around, and she slips it into the trash can. Oblivious, the woman turns back brandishing two stapled packets and holds them out.

“Here are the forms for official registration. I’ll be waiting outside, give me a holler if you have any questions. And, uh, do you either of you have a history of homicide against the disabled?”

“Isn’t that something you should’ve asked before the training?” Janae asked.

“Is that a no?” she asks.

“Uh, it’s a no from me,” Brook says.

“Great!” She says, clapping her hands again. She pushes herself off the table and leaves the room. As soon as she leaves the room Janae snatches a pencil off the desk, so Brook does the same. For a few long minutes they silently sit in their chairs, awkwardly leaning forward so they can fill out the forms against the surface of the desk. It’s probably the longest Brook’s ever been alone with Janae. It’s silent except for the scratch of pencils on paper.

“Why don’t you like me?” Brook asks. It’s the second time she asked someone that, and the self-conscious part of herself that she developed in prison thinks that might be a little pathetic; the rest doesn’t really care.

Janae shoots her a look.

“I don’t dislike you,” she says, clearly annoyed at the interruption. She turns back to the form.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Brook says, trying to make her voice light and airy, as if this doesn’t affect her. She fails.

“We all got our cliques, ok, and I think it’s better if we stick to them,” Janae says. She doesn’t even look up, eyes locked on the form as if it required all of her attention.

“So your ideal world is, what, the beginning of high school musical?”

Janae looks at her oddly.

“Stick to the status quo,” Brook sings. “Y’know?”

“I know the fucking movie, Soso.”

“Right.” Brook turns back to her task, wishing that she wasn’t reminded of Leanne.

There’s a few minutes of silence, and Brook is halfway to convincing herself that having this tension between them forever wouldn’t be that bad when Janae speaks.

“You were here when all that Vee shit went down.”

“Uh, I was in the prison. I wasn’t exactly aware that most of it was happening.” Brook says. She had heard about it secondhand from Poussey, but even then she knew that some details were omitted.

“Well, she pretty much only recruited Black inmates. And by time everyone figured out how batshit evil she was, she’d already gone and kicked the bucket. Didn’t even leave a body to spit on. So take one guess where all that hate fell.” Judging by Janae’s look, an actual guess wouldn’t be received too well. Brook stays silent.

“And Taystee’s fun, everyone likes Taystee,” Janae continues. “Poussey was against it, so she’s off the hook. Everyone thinks Suzanne is crazy, and besides, Vee tried to frame her. She was the victim. But me? The angry one, the one who went along with it from the beginning? I didn’t stand a chance.” Janae shrugs as if it doesn’t bother her. “After a while of that shit, you figure out it’s best to stick to people that understand. And be wary of anyone who tries to join a group they don’t belong. And now with all the fucking racist guards walking around? It’s more important than ever.”

“You can’t just divide people up like that and then decide not to associate with anyone outside your group.”

“Hey, I’m not the one dividing people up, okay,” Janae says. “Vee made the divide. The guards made the divide. The entire goddamn system made the divide. I’m just trying to survive with it.”

“There shouldn’t be a divide,” Brook says emphatically. “You can hate the guards all you want but we’re both in prison, okay. We’re in the same exact situation.”

“No we’re not!” Janae slaps a hand on the table. “You’re half white, with something extra mixed in to make you exotic. You just aren’t a target in the way I am. The guards wanna fuck you, but they wanna kill me. Got pretty close to actually killing Poussey.” Janae blinks fast, turning her gaze away. “If you actually care about her, you’ll fucking open your eyes and see that no, we aren’t in the same exact situation.”

Janae turns back to her form, eyes hard, and starts filling in bubbles. Brook, thinking hard, turns back to her own form. Fills in some bubbles. Flips a page.

“Ok, you know what, I’m not done,” Janae says, lifting her head again and locking eyes with Brook. “You know, I was in the shu for no reason and no one did shit, but everyone’s falling over themselves to keep you from going to psych when frankly, you had a pretty good reason to be sent there. I know in the big picture it ain’t that big a deal, but that fucks me up a little, okay.”

“I can’t apologize for that, none of that was me.”

“Yeah,” Janae scoffs. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“But,” Brook continues, “I think I can understand how that would be frustrating.”

“That’s nice, but I don’t give a shit what you understand.”

“That’s fine.” Brook swallows. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say to any of that. When I asked, I figured you just thought I was annoying. But you have a lot more problems with me than I expected.”

“Also your haircut’s stupid,” Janae says shortly, and Brook thinks she’s trying to be obnoxious, but a laugh escapes her anyway. Janae looks at her a little weirdly, but after a moment chuckles too.

“You're fucking weird, you know that, right?”

They finish their paperwork and hand it in. They leave, and Brook hesitates outside the door; Janae stops as well, just looking at her.

“This doesn’t mean that we’re cool, you know,” Janae says.

“Right,” Brook says, and walks away before she can watch Janae do the same.

\----

Brook is almost back to the laundry room when she hears her name being called. She turns to see Taystee jogging down the hallway, waving a hand above her head.

“Yo, Brook,” Taystee says. “I got good news. Shit that shouldn’t wait until lunch.” She slaps her hands together, biting down a smile.

“She’s coming back in a week. They talked to Caputo and it’s official.”

“A week,” Brook says, a grins stretching her face. She can’t think of anything else to say. “A week,” she says again.

Luckily, Taystee doesn’t seem to need an actual response; she’s already moving down the hallway, calling out that she’s going to tell the others.

A week, Brook thinks fuzzily, watching Taystee go. Seven days. A finish line, an endpoint, a definitive number. It feels amazing. It feels terrifying. Quite honestly, it doesn’t feel real.

Unsurprisingly, Brook can’t concentrate her entire work shift. Her hands work on autopilot, and she makes more than a few mistakes. Leanne and Angie definitely think she’s drunk or high, and she hears them whispering about it, but she can’t find it within herself to care.

One week.

Seven days.

Incredibly, impossibly soon.

\----

Six and a half days before Poussey’s supposed to come back, Alison comes to her dorm.

Brook is sitting cross-legged on her bunk, idly filling out a crossword. Two of her bunkmates are at dinner, and the third is reading, so she can enjoy the relative peace and quiet. It only hurts her a little now.

Alison knocks on the concrete border. Brook looks up, startled.

“So,” Alison says. “Poussey is coming back soon.”

“Yeah,” Brook says, biting down on a smile. She closes her book.

“Lot of emotions floating around,” Alison says, stepping into the bunk. She rests a hand on the metal frame of the bed. “I gotta say, it’ll be nice to have her back.”

“Yeah.” Brook doesn’t try to bite down on her smile this time. “It will. But, uh, I didn’t think you were that close with her.”

“I’m not really,” Alison admits. “By the time you joined the group you and Poussey already had your thing going on.”

Brook smiles shyly. “By the time our thing started going on you had already joined the group.”

“Yeah. We both joined a little late. We’re outsiders, aren’t we?” Alison moves to sit on her bunk, and Brook scoots over obligingly. “They have all these inside jokes and histories that we just don’t get.”

“Oh my god, the fucking She-Wiz,” Brook says, and Alison laughs.

“Holy shit, what was the deal with that? I almost wish I coulda been there to witness it. And did you hear the one about the squirrel?”

“There’s one about a squirrel?”

‘Yeah, apparently Poussey was convinced that this squirrel was drinking her hooch so she spent hours trying to catch it.” The image of Poussey setting up traps Wile E. Coyote stile flashes across her brain, and she giggles.

“How’d she even manage that?”

“Got a bag a round it or something, I don’t know. But, y’know, there are some stories that aren’t so funny.” The mood sobers.

“Are you talking about Vee?”

“Yeah. That shit’s still got ripple effects in the group, I can tell. I might not remember shit from my college psychology classes, but I can tell when group dynamics are off.”

“You went to college?” Brook asks, unthinking.

“The fuck do you mean by that?” Alison side eyes her.

“I don’t know, just surprised me, that’s all,” Brook says sheepishly. “Most of the women round here aren’t exactly college-educated. One almost punched me in the face for assuming she was.”

Alison hums, noncommittal.

“So were you a psychology major?”

Alison shrugs.

“Thought about it, but went into business instead. But that’s not the point.” Brook opens her mouth, and Alison holds up a hand to silence her.

“The point,” Alison continues, “is that friendships aren’t set in stone. Groups change, welcoming some people in, kicking other people out.”

“I still don’t get the point,” Brook admits.

“Right now I’ve got a pretty good thing going, group-wise,” Alison says, shrugging a shoulder. “They’re relatively funny and most aren’t deranged. But Poussey’s coming back soon, and she’s gonna get a lot of attention. And since you’re her girlfriend that means you’re part of it. But I’m relatively new to the group. And I’m not getting kicked out but it can’t hurt to strengthen some bonds, so to speak.”

“So, you’re what, reaching out while you have the upper hand?”

“Mhm,” Alison smiles. “Something like that. I’m a strategist, what can I say.”

“Um, ok. Sure, let’s be friends.” Brook smiles sunnily, and Alison raises her eyebrows.

“Just like that?”

“I can put you through some trials first if you’d prefer,” Brook laughs, but tapers off when Alison remains straight-faced.

“So I guess we’re friends now,” Alison says.

“Yeah, I guess,” Brook says. She kind of fell into Poussey’s group without much discussion, and she fell into romance with Poussey even faster. It’s nice, she thinks, to have someone say that they’re friends. She offers a hand, and Alison gives her a disparaging look, but shakes it anyway.

“Friends,” Brook says, smiling.

“I’ll get started on the matching bracelets right away,” Alison says dryly before standing up and walking away.

“Make mine purple and blue,” Brook calls out.

Alison cheerfully lifts up a middle finger without looking back.

“Ah, the magic of friendship,” her bunkmate says.

“Don’t worry, I can make one for you too if you want,” Brook says. “They’re actually pretty easy to make, from what I remember from summer camp.”

“Oh, no, that wasn’t an invitation to talk,” her bunkmate says, “That was an attempt to mock your pitiful attempts at navigating interpersonal relationships.”

Brook rolls her eyes. She knew there was a reason she never bothered to learn her bunkmate’s name.

\----

The next six days pass, slow and fast all at once, like the last week before summer vacation. After an agonizing wait, and before she knows it, Brook wakes up with one thought in her mind:

Poussey’s coming home today.

Well, no, Poussey’s coming back to Litchfield, which probably feels like the opposite of home to her. Still, Poussey’s coming back to Brook, and she can’t stop the flood of feelings rushing through her blood.

It’s infectious. Even Alison spends the day smiling to herself. They all get special permission to get off work duty, and even the glare of other inmates can’t bring them down.

They gather in the rec room. Cindy buys a bunch of shit from commissary and dumps it on the table. Taystee grabs a bag of chips and Suzanne daintily extracts a bag of fruit snacks from the center of the pile. They sit around the table for at least an hour. Every conversation sparks and dies within minutes, killed by the heavy mix of anxiety and excitement. Brook jiggles her left leg, forces it to stop, then unconsciously jiggles her right leg. She tells Suzanne the entire plot of One Tree Hill just to have something to do.

She’s on the seventh season when Taystee jumps to her feet, eyes on the door. Everyone else turns and—Brook sucks in a wavering breath. There she is. Poussey is back.

She stands as well, but she doesn’t get the chance to see much before Taystee strides to the other end of the room and wraps her arms around Poussey. Her shoulders shake, and Poussey’s hands clutch at her back, crumpling the beige fabric and pulling her shirt tight. A few moments pass, and Brook sees the other inmates in the room quietly leave, either respectful or uncomfortable with emotion; Brook doesn’t really care either way.

Finally, Taystee draws back, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and Brook takes in the wheelchair for the first time. It’s black and metallic, and it looks slightly different from a normal wheelchair, but Brook doesn’t take the time to the log the differences; her concentration shifts to Poussey, studying the hollowness in her cheeks and the circumference of her wrists. Poussey had always been small, but now she seemed shrunken. Fragile. She limply raises a hand in greeting.

“Hey, party people.”

Inexplicably, Cindy starts to cry.

“Oh shit,” Poussey says, looking bewildered, and then suddenly they’re all rushing around her, hands on shoulders and arms around necks, knees pressed together as they fight for room in the huddle around Poussey’s wheelchair.

Brook, wedged under Taystee’s arm with Cindy’s hand slung around her waist, is forcefully reminded of the day at the lake. How they all put their arms around each other like this and splashed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

But this time it’s not Poussey’s arm around her, and a guard starts shouting “no hugs,” and the memory fades. They extricate their limbs quickly, stepping back to give Poussey some room.

“So this is the triumphant return of the martyr of Litchfield,” says Cindy. “I gotta admit, I expected a little more pizzazz. Fireworks maybe?”

“I asked, but they already ran out,” Poussey says. “Fucking budget cuts.” Brook lets out a weak laugh, and Cindy and Alison share a grin.

“It’s good to have you back P,” Taystee says, squeezing Poussey’s shoulder. They share a warm look before Taystee coughs and pulled away.

“I will admit, though, this is some weird-looking Professor X shit.” Taystee says, kicking one of the wheels with her foot.

“Yeah, special quality prison wheelchair.“ Poussey says. “Gotta make sure I don’t pry out one of the screws to shank a bitch.”

“How long do you gotta be in that thing anyway?” Janae asks.

Poussey shrugs, but her movements seem a little too jerky to be casual.

“Hell if I know,” she says. “Til my legs work, I guess.”

“They don’t move at all?” Suzanne asks. “Does that mean your arms are going to get super strong to compensate?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works,” Poussey says. Suzanne hums as if she doesn’t quite believe her.

“Ok, this is great and all,” Alison says, “but there’s a pile of food over there that isn’t gonna eat itself.”

“Damn right,” Cindy says.

As the others walk back to the table, Brook hangs back with Poussey.

“Hey,” she says, placing a tentative hand on Poussey’s shoulder

“Hey, babe.” Poussey looks up and smiles dimly.

Brook beams back. Things can only get better from here.


	2. gnawing at the corners of your mind

Things can only get worse from here, Poussey thinks.

Her back aches, dull throbbing in the center of her spine interspersed with sharp lances of pain up and down her entire back. She thinks the hard press of the chair against her back might be adding a few bruises to the collection.

But all of that would be manageable if she wasn’t back in this god-forsaken place.

Even the sterile, blindingly white walls of the hospital would be better than the stained and run-down walls of the prison.

Poussey nibbles on a stale chocolate bar, wondering how much longer this welcome back “party” is going to last. The group broke up into little pockets of conversations about half an hour ago. Cindy and Alison are talking shit about something or someone by the table. Brook and Taystee have landed on the safest conversation topic imaginable, their favorite books (Taystee contends that Harry Potter surpasses all, while Brook argues that the fifty pages she read of _An Inconvenient Truth_ were very compelling). Suzanne is gathering all the candy wrappers and flattening them out on the table, shiny side up. Poussey and Janae’s conversation struggles along in starts and stops, Janae too on-edge to be her usual self and Poussey too tired to fill in the gaps.

“So how are we even gonna fit this wheelchair in the bunk?” Poussey asks, after another lull in the conversation has gone on too long. “It’s crowded enough as it is, I don’t wanna get into a turf war because it’s in someone’s contraband space or some shit.”

Janae lifts an eyebrow.

“Didn’t they tell you? They’re putting me and you in Judy’s old digs. Probably hoping if they give you one nice thing you won’t sue their asses for everything they got.”

“Oh shit,” Poussey says. “Do I get to keep the seltzer maker?”

“The what?”

“Y’know, the shit that makes the bubbly water.”

“First of all, gross,” Janae says. “Second of all, pretty sure our good friend Judy King took all her shit when she skipped town.”

Poussey opens her mouth to respond, but stutters to a stop when a lance of pain shoots up her spine; her hand jerk up in a flinch, and she continues the movement, casually bringing it to her mouth to cover a fake-yawn, trying to make it seem like that was her plan all along.

“Man, I’m tired as shit,” she says.

“Why? You were sitting down all day,” Suzanne says, and Taystee shushes her with her eyes. Brook says nothing, looking at her with a little furrow between her brows. Poussey tears her gaze away and shifts her attention to Janae. 

“You wanna show me those new digs?” she asks. Janae nods slowly, wrapping her hands around handles of the wheelchair.

“Yeah, a’ight. It’s almost curfew anyway, we should all head back to our dorms.”

“Last one out has to clean up,” Alison says, and disappears out the doorway. Cindy shoots out of her seat and follows her. Suzanne sits down in a seat and crosses her arms, looking excited. And Brook is still looking at her, concerned, biting her lip as if fighting down all the words she wants to say and—Poussey can’t deal with that right now.

“Onward, my steed,” she says, and Janae scoffs as she pushes her out of the door.

\----

The walk down the halls is awkward; she can feel the eyes of guards and inmates alike, weighing down her shoulders and fraying her nerves. Poussey is ready to maneuver into bed and go to sleep, but when they finally get to the room, the path isn’t clear; a short white woman, body ravaged by either drugs or time, stands in the doorway. She looks up as they approach, but doesn’t speak or move. Janae keeps moving, and for a second Poussey think she’s just going to plow the woman over, but at the last second she pulls back.

“The fuck you want?” Janae asks.

“I heard you got pills,” the woman said, nervously pinching at the skin of her wrist. “Good shit. Shit that’ll make it all go away.”

“We ain’t got nothing for you, so keep it moving,” Janae says. The woman ignores her.

“We all know health services here ain’t shit,” the woman says, eyes set on Poussey. “They don’t give me what I need. You can though. You gotta understand, I’m dying and they ain’t doing nothing. They don’t give a shit.” The woman sniffs loudly; her wrist is red and raw. “You give a shit, don’t you?”

“What’re you dying from?” Poussey asks warily.

“It’s eating me up inside,” the woman says. “Stage 7 cancer. My organs are falling apart. I shit three times a day, and all that comes out is liquid, like a fucking river from my ass.”

Janae makes a disgusted sound and takes a step back. Poussey bites the inside of her cheek and lowers her head. Her mom had cancer, and she may not know all the lingo, but she knows there is no such thing as stage 7.

“Eat some fiber,” Poussey says. “I got nothing for you.”

The woman’s darting eyes focus on Poussey and her body goes still. All the nervous energy is gone, replaced with a quiet rage.

“Fuck you,” she spits. “Why do you have to be such a selfish bitch?”

“Yeah, yeah, move along,” Janae says, making a shooing gesture with her hands. The woman storms off and Janae pushes Poussey into the room. It looks different; it still has that funky smell, but the appliances have disappeared and Judy’s fluffy pink blanket has been replaced with standard prison sheets. It feels empty.

The last time she was here Judy King had offered her a job. She wonders how she’s supposed to cut vegetables if she can’t even reach the table from a chair.

“So, uh, how do you wanna do this?” Janae asks, cutting off her train of thought. She anxiously rubs her hands down the side of her uniform; Poussey clenches the armrests to keep from doing the same.

“Uh, wheel me up as close as possible. Sideways, I guess.”

Janae follows her instructions, and slowly, awkwardly, they manage to heave her up on to the bed.

“Man, I’m gonna be buff as fuck by the end of this, huh,” Janae says, stretching her arms. Poussey pulls the blankets over her legs so she doesn’t have to look at them.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

“So you really got no movement at all, huh?” Janae asks. As if she just now realized that the wheelchair wasn’t the cool new fashion accessory. Poussey considers not answering out of spite.

“I can twitch it a little, but that’s it,” she finally says. Janae nods.

“Light?” she asks, walking over to the door. 

“We have a fucking light switch in our room,” Poussey says. “Holy fuck, this is the Ritz-Carlton of prison.”

“All our sheets are gonna be folded into swans when we wake up,” Janae says, looking relieved to hear a joke.

“Caputo’s gonna be at the door next morning, like—“ Poussey feigns a falsetto—“ Room service!”

“In a fucking maid’s outfit,” Janae snickers.

“It will compliment his mustache, though,” Poussey laughs.

“The only compliment I want is a complimentary foot massage.”

As soon as she says it, a regretful look flashes across Janae’s face, her eyes flickering down to Poussey’s legs.

“Uh, I wouldn’t mind some complimentary mints,” Poussey says.

“Yeah, me neither” Janae says, stilted, and flicks the light off.

\----

The next morning, Poussey stares at the entrance to the bathroom, unmoving. Other inmates weave around her, either ignoring her completely or shooting her sympathetic looks, which are somehow worse. In front of her, she sees Cindy, Janae, and Taystee all glance at each other awkwardly.

“Do you have to go?” Janae ventures to ask.

Poussey shakes her head, and she can almost hear the collective sigh of relief.

“When was the last time you showered?” Taystee asks.

“Uh, the day before yesterday.” Poussey says. Cindy leans over and sniffs her.

“Yeah, you can make it another day. But we gotta deal with this shit eventually or you might start stinking li—oh, holy shit.” Cindy stops suddenly. “I just put it together. That was fucking Soso.”

She cackles, hitting Janae on the shoulder, who starts to chuckle as well. Poussey rolls her eyes.

“Fuck off, man, she was trying to prove a point about how showers in here are shit or something.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t realize until now,” Cindy laughs. Poussey puts her hands on the wheels and starts turning around.

“That _deserves_ to be mocked,” Cindy says, “It’s an unalienable right or some shit.”

Taystee takes Poussey’s chair and starts pushing her, and Poussey pulls her hands into her lap. They chat on in the background, but Poussey tunes them out, ready to be far away from the bathroom and the uncomfortable questions it brings.

\----

Fifteen minutes later, Poussey can’t help but wish she were back at the bathroom. That might’ve been awkward, but this is just painful. Every inmate gives her a wide berth. She can’t fit through the line, so a kitchen worker has to make her plate and bring it out for her. She’s pretty sure Red makes sure she gets extra food. The wheels of her wheelchair are squeaky on the linoleum, too loud in the unusually quiet cafeteria. And all of that might’ve been, not bearable, but _survivable,_ if it hadn’t been for the fucking floor.

Poussey can’t stop staring at the tiles. She was waxing those floors when her mom died. She was pressed down onto that floor when she almost died. Time and time again, those fucking cafeteria floors haunt her, the implied setting of all her worst pains

She still remembers the feel of it pressed against her cheek, her hands grappling for purchase. Her chest had pushed into it with an unbearable pressure. The contrast of black boots against the white was the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness.

“Yo, P?” Taystee says, waving a hand in front of her face. “Damn, where’s your mind at?” Poussey looks at her, and Taystee grimaces sympathetically. Poussey tries to smile back. She casually leans her temple on a clenched fist to try to block the white and red checkers out of her peripheral vision. It doesn’t work. 

“You didn’t miss much, just Cindy laughing at the pursuit of justice,” Brook says. Cindy nods in agreement.

“Unalienable right, bitches.”

“So being mocked is an unalienable right but adequate facilities isn’t?”

“Yep,” Cindy says, popping the p. “Glad we got that cleared up.”

Brook rolls her eyes and turns to Poussey.

“Anyways, I forgot to tell you. Janae and I trained to be OCAs!”

“To be what now?” Poussey asked, raising her eyebrows. 

“Offender care aides,” Janae says. “Basically we get paid to make sure you don’t roll your ass down a hill or something.”

“Sounds like a challenging job,” Poussey says, shoving a forkful of mystery meat in her mouth. She makes a face.

“Shit, I forgot how the bad the food was. The guard didn’t manage to kill me, so the food’s gonna finish the job.”

“Don’t joke about shit like that,” Taystee says, scowling.

“Who said it was a joke,” Poussey retorts. “This shit got the same amount of sodium as the dead sea.”

“Yeah, true,” Taystee sighs, her lips twitching in disgust as she pushes her food around with a fork.

“So there are other OCA duties!” Brook pipes up.

“Like what?” Poussey asks.

“Like, making sure you go to see Caputo when he schedules meetings with you,” Brook says. “Like the meeting he scheduled today after breakfast today that I’m supposed to tell you about.”

“Shit,” Poussey says. “I think I’d rather eat the food.”

This time Taystee laughs, and Poussey feels a warmth spread through her body—tinged at the edges by a certain coldness she can’t shake, but warm nonetheless.

\----

They finish their food—or rather, their “food”—and Taystee and Brook take her to Caputo’s office. Taystee doesn’t say much. Brook pushes her wheelchair, and they exchange a few sentences, but Poussey hates not being able to look her in the face—she feels more like a kid in a stroller than a girlfriend. She lets the conversation peter off early, and they spend most of the short trip in silence. When she finally arrives at the office, Brook says goodbye, sends Taystee a friendly wave, and leaves.

Taystee helps her get into the small room where she works so she isn’t awkwardly seated in the hallway. Almost immediately after she’s situated, Caputo enters the office, flanked by short white man in a loose suit. He stares at her a moment, and then clears his throat.

“Inmate Washington,” he says. “It’s nice to see you…doing well.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” she says.

“Mr. Caputo?” the man pipes up.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he tells her, and then waves the man into the office. The door closes behind them.

“So, T—“ Poussey starts, but Taystee shushes her.

“The walls are thin as shit,” she whispers. “We might be able to hear something.” Poussey nods, and rolls herself a little closer to the wall. She can make out the faint conversation.

“So?” Caputo asks.

“Interrogated Berlin,” the guys says. “Nada.”

“Was she the last on the list?” Caputo asks.

“No, she was the last on our _third_ list.” Poussey hears the sound of shuffling papers.

“Shit, what’s next? Interrogations for everyone? Background checks? How long is this going to take?”

“I’d say it’ll take another two weeks.”

“You have a lead,” Caputo says, laughing. “Thank fuck.”

“Nope, no lead,” the guy responds. “We’ll just wait two weeks and see if stuff pops up. If we get nothing, then we rule it a suicide.”

“And say, what, he buried himself?” Caputo asks.

“Listen, he has no social security number, no family, none of the contact info is turning up shit. No one’s gonna miss this guy, and every day brings more negative attention to the prison and more money that could be used for stuff that’s actually important.”

“This is not important? At the beginning you guys were ready to fucking pour all your resources into figuring this out,” Caputo says accusingly. “You were talking a lot of shit about the sanctity of human life and justice and about not resting until the matter was settled.”

“Yeah, you got the good guys at first, the guys who actually dig into this shit. But since they’re so good they get transferred off, and I get transferred in. And when I’m transferred in, I know I’m here to tie loose ends up on paper. Not everyone can be crusaders for justice, some people just gotta wrap things up so the rest of the world can move on,”

A deep sigh.

“The guards aren’t gonna be happy about this,” Caputo says.

“There’s still a couple weeks, maybe we’ll turn some stuff up,” the guy says lightly. “And if not, then we’ll give them a little bonus for their cooperation during these trying times. That’ll shut em up.”

“I do not think you understand these guards _mentality_ , okay,” Caputo says, voice rising in volume. “They aren’t the usual punch in, punch out type. They’re like a fucking pack or something, and if they think the alpha isn’t providing they’ll rip out his throat and replace him.”

There’s a soft click, like a briefcase closing. 

“I’m the alpha in this metaphor,” Caputo adds. “And I’d like to keep my throat where it is, thanks.”

“Let’s talk at the end of the week,” the guy says flatly. The door opens, and Taystee hurries to turn her attention back to the computer. Poussey picks at her nails, trying to look extremely focused.

“Ladies,” the guy acknowledges, and leaves, the door hanging open behind him. Caputo walks out, looks at them, and then walks back into his office, closing the door behind him.

A beat of silence.

“Uh, when do you think I’m gonna have that meeting?”

Taystee glances at her watch.

“Let’s give him ten minutes.”

\----

Ten minutes pass, then another ten, and then another. Taystee and Poussey chat, but it’s stilted, and the laughs are sparse and insincere. Whenever Poussey considers asking if they should check if Caputo is ready, she thinks that if she has just another five minutes, just another topic of conversation, she’ll be able to make things normal between them again. But no matter how much she hates to admit it, being with Taystee is starting to remind her of being on that cafeteria floor. She wonders what Taystee sees when she looks at her.

Finally, Caputo opens the door and waves her in. She enters, taking a long look around the room. Has she ever been in Caputo’s office before? She can’t remember.

“So how are you feeling?” he asks, hands rising to grab at the wheelchair handles, before he seemingly thinks better of it and lets them fall back to his side.

“I’m feeling like I want to get this meeting started.”

“You read my mind,” he says, skirting around her and sliding into the chair behind is desk. As Poussey wheels up to the other side, he pulls out a stack of papers from a top drawer; from Poussey’s point of view, they look blank.

“Unfortunately, this meeting started a bit late, so I’ll try to be brief. First things first, you can’t go back to work duty just yet,” Caputo says. “You can’t stock shelves if you can’t reach them, after all.”

“We don’t have enough books to fill up the bottom row, I don’t think we gotta worry about the top row.”

“Regardless, the library is…small,” Caputo says, as if it pains him to admit it. “You might not fit in the lanes anyway.”

“I’ve had the job for ages,” Poussey says. “And it’s not like I’ll be any more useful anywhere else.”

“Take this time to relax, and we’ll see what we can do about rearranging shelves or something.”

“I spent the last four weeks relaxing,” Poussey says.

“Good, so you have a lot of practice.” Caputo shuffles the papers around on his desk. “Okay, next order of business. You’ll still need some outpatient therapy, so we’ll have a nurse come in for two hours every Tuesday and Friday to check up. I’ll tell one of your OCA’s the time when we finalize the arrangement. As for location, Counselor Healy’s office was recently vacated, so I think you two should meet there.”

Poussey frowns.

“Not in a medical examining room?”

“We have double the inmates,” Caputo says. “We don’t have the time, space, or money to give you an entire examining room to yourself.”

Before she can respond, he starts shuffling his papers again, seemingly for no reason other than make noise. Finally, he puts them down.

“Any questions?” Caputo asks.

“I got one,” Poussey says. “What do I do about the bathroom situation?” 

“Oh, yes.” Caputo coughs. “There’s a wheelchair accessible bathroom in the fifth wing.”

“That’s the opposite side of the building from my room,” Poussey says. The words _you’ve got to be shitting me_ stick in her throat.

“I’m sorry, but we just don’t have the resources to renovate another bathroom.” Caputo raises his hands, palms up. “It’s out of my hands.”

Poussey goes stiff in her chair. He says “renovate another bathroom” as if she wants to repaint the walls or install automatic soap dispensers. As if they didn’t have the resources to pay Bailey a salary when he isn’t even here. Her ears ring. Her legs ache.

“Right,” Poussey says, voice sounding far away. “So is the meeting over?”

Caputo nods.

“Yes, it is.”

\----

Taystee opens the door for her on the way out. Poussey doesn’t say anything to her, just stares at her hands as Janae retrieves her.

She’s freaking the fuck out. She knows she is. She’s painfully aware that her thoughts are spiraling and spinning and bouncing against each other in a mess of static and knots. Janae is pushing her, and she’s moving, but she doesn’t even knowing where she’s going. Right now, she doesn’t know if she could figure it out even if she cared enough to try.

She’s freaking the fuck out on one layer, but on another she can’t just stop thinking how stupid it is that she’s freaking out in the first place. She should be able to stop. Why can’t she stop?

It’s just a fucking bathroom, it’s not even a big deal. She was able to handle being in the prison, looking at the floor, being surrounded by guards with the same uniform and goddamn black shoes—but a bathroom is what’s making her freak out?

She knows that she should be able to calm down, but she can’t, and that makes her heart ramp it up another notch.

She thinks Janae is trying to talk to her. Quite frankly, she doesn’t give a fuck.

A moment passes, and Janae is suddenly gone; she’s in her bunk. When did that happen?

Poussey inhales raggedly, and chokes on the exhale. She keeps breathing, listening as her breaths smoothen and fall into a regular pattern again. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Her eyes drift shut.

\----

The next day, after stubbornly refusing to talk about the night before, Poussey asks Janae to take her to Sophia’s old place. Her hair had been growing out anyway, and her month in the hospital didn’t help manners. She had been considering letting it grow and trying a different look. Well, she got her wish; a wheelchair is definitely a new look for her. Now she just wants to feel normal. Maybe looking like she did before might help. She doubts it, but she has no work duty, so she needs to do something to fill her days.

She looks at the words scrawled on the wall and swallows against a lump in her throat. Bracing herself, she wheels herself in. Sophia, sitting in the chair, doesn’t look away from her reflection.

“Nice to see you got your place back,” Poussey offers. Sophia scoffs.

“Hardly. I get an hour in here a day, maximum, and that’s only after Gloria stormed in like an avenging angel of god or some shit.”

“Shit, man, that sucks.”

Sophia finally looks at her. 

“I think you win the “shit sucks” competition, though. Whatcha here for?”

“Do you still cut hair?”

“I would if I had any hair to cut.”

“Well, here’s some,” Poussey says, running her hand over her hair. “Not much, but it’ll have to do.

“I hope you ain’t asking for anything special, hon, because even I can’t do much with that.”

“I was actually hoping you’d shave it all off. Y’know, new disability new me.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Sophia says, standing up. “I would if I could, but all my shit was confiscated. Unless you want me to gnaw your hair off with my teeth, the best I can do is restyle it a bit.”

“That’s fine,” Poussey says. “Just do _something_ with it.”

“I would say take a seat, but,” Sophia shrugs.

“I’ll just roll on up to the mirror.”

Poussey does so, and Sophia rummages around in drawers.

“Let me take a look at that duck fuzz you call hair,” Sofia says, stepping up behind the chair. She looks at it, flicking pieces of it with her fingers, and Poussey swallows. She knows she has to say something. She also knows it might make things awkward, but she can’t sit here for another minute with the words stuck in her throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do anything when all that shit was going down.” She tilts her head meaningfully.

“Oh please, we were never exactly friends,” Sofia says as she starts to work. “You’re just saying that because what happened was an omen of the long and fucked up road that led to you getting hurt.” Poussey grimaces.

“Still.” she says, eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror.

“Oh honey,” Sofia sighs, “It’s not like you could’ve done anything anyway.”

Poussey does nothing to acknowledge she heard her, so Sofia starts working on her hair. Minutes pass, and Poussey stares as her hair is rearranged.

“And, uh…” Poussey says, unable to stop herself, “As long as we’re still doing apologies—“

“Are we doing apologies? Is that what we’re doing?” Sofia asks, annoyed.

Poussey plows on, “I know this happened ages ago and shit, but I’m sorry for making fun of you for wanting better healthcare. When you were running for WAC leader and shit? The health services here are complicated and under resourced as shit, and it’s not wrong to want to change that.”

“Y’know, I had almost forgotten about that,” Sofia says, pursing her lips and shaking her head slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Life’s too short to hold grudges.” With a flourish, Sofia removes the sheet she had wrapped around Poussey’s shoulders. She doesn’t look any different. She supposes that wasn’t really the point, though. She turns her chair around and starts to leave.

“Hey, Poussey,” Sofia says, and she stalls in the door. “Health services is shit, but there are some tricks to getting by. Let me know if you want to hear some.”

Poussey nods, smiling as she wheels herself away.

\----

Janae is waiting for her when she gets outside. Their first stop, the rec room, has been taken over by a horde of new inmates, so Poussey asks Janae to take her back to her dorm.

She doesn’t like spending more time than strictly necessary in there; it’s strangely large, but its walls and door also makes it feel claustrophobic. And although she would never say it aloud, she still thinks of it as Judy King’s old room, which makes her feel like an interloper in her own space. But sometimes there just isn’t anywhere else she wants to go, so back to the dorm it is.

When they get there, Poussey stations herself at the little nightstand, pulling out a book and resting it on the surface. Janae lies down on her bed for a minute or two, but soon after begs off to go piss. Poussey, engrossed in the book, simply hums.

Almost as soon as Janae has left she hears a knock, and before she can answer the door swings open. A black-haired white woman in a dark purple dress steps in and closes the door behind her.

“Hey, Washington, right?” she says.

“Uh, yeah,” Poussey says. She closes her book.

“Linda Ferguson, director of purchasing at MCC, hi,” the woman says, walking forward and extending a hand. Poussey shakes it; her grip is cold and strong, and Poussey is glad when she draws away.

“I heard about your situation,” Ferguson says, a look of feigned sadness overtaking her face. “And I just wanted to extend my sincerest condolences. Terrible, simply terrible. And now you have to worry about trips to bathroom on top of everything else?” Ferguson clucks her tongue. “Well, MCC is on the case. We’ll figure this out for you.”

“Thanks,” Poussey says, hoping her facial expression conveys the opposite emotion.

“You’re welcome,” Ferguson says. “And don’t you worry too much, the bathroom situation might be fixed sooner than you think.” Ferguson shoots her a wink. Poussey raises her eyebrows.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Ferguson continues, “But there’s another prison not too far away that is just _wonderful_ at disability accommodations. Also part of MCC, of course. I think you’ll have a much more satisfying time there.”

“Another prison?”

“You didn’t hear it from me!” Ferguson repeats, laughing. “And don’t thank me now, we still have some paperwork to file.”

Ferguson, smile stretching her red lips, holds up her hand and crosses two of her fingers. With a jaunty little wave, she bids goodbye to Poussey, heels clacking loudly as she disappears into the hallway.

\---

Poussey spends dinner in relative silence, poking at her food. She doesn’t know why she expected anything else. Of course she’s getting transferred. Of course she’s leaving her friends, her girlfriend, behind. There must be something about her that makes the universe want to bounce her from place to place, letting her stay long enough to get comfortable before ripping her away. Shit, even prison kicks her out when she’s getting too comfortable. The first time to the hospital, and then to a whole other prison.

She eats her food, not out of hunger but because she doesn’t really want to talk. She thinks Taystee notices she’s acting off, but she doesn’t say anything. Poussey can’t tell if she’s disappointed or relieved.

Dinner ends, and they join the crowd of inmates shuffling towards the exits. Brook walks her back to her dorm, chattering pleasantly. Poussey, knowing the train wreck that’ll occur if she opens her mouth, mostly stays silent, which makes Brook nervously ramble more. By the time that they get back to Poussey’s dorm, Brook is practically monologuing, switching from topic to topic as soon she thinks of them. The most recent one is their relationship, which makes Poussey’s heart constrict with an unnamable emotion.

“I don’t see why prison should stop us from having a normal relationship,” Brook says, opening the door so Poussey can wheel herself through.

“You know what?” Brook continues. “We should go on a date. I know movie nights are banned because of the body, but I’m sure we could figure something out.”

She goes silent for a minute as she helps Poussey onto the bed, which gives Poussey the time to think about how they probably won’t ever get to go to another movie night together. The thought makes her blood freeze and burn at the same time.

“Speaking of dates…” Brook says as soon as Poussey is situated. “I think our three month anniversary is coming up!”

“Shit, really?” Poussey asks. Brook nods excitedly.

“We really need to decide when we actually got together so we can properly celebrate. What do you think—the day of the lake? When we kissed for the first time? We didn’t really officially ask each other out, so I’m not sure the exact procedure.”

“Does it really matter?” Poussey asks.

“Yeah, we need to know the date so we can celebrate on the right day,” Brook says. She looks at Poussey, smiling. “Three months—That’s a fourth of the year! It’s a big event.”

“Maybe we won’t be celebrating our anniversary,” Poussey says.

“What?” Brook asks, some of the joy leaving her expression. “I mean, I get that love shouldn’t be on a schedule, and the idea of anniversaries is at least partially pushed by companies for the sake of selling chocolate and flowers, but I still like the romantic aspect of it.”

“It’s not that, just—maybe we won’t.”

“Uh, what is _that_ supposed to mean?” Brook asks. She’s annoyed now, hands going to her hips and brows furrowing.

“It means what it means,” Poussey says tightly.

“Wow, thank you for explaining,” Brook says. She sits one the chair by the nightstand, folding her hands together. “Seriously, Poussey, is something wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”

“Things are changing,” Poussey says. “I don’t know if we’ll last.”

“Who knows anything?” Brook asks. “Weren’t you the one who said we can’t live our lives according to maybes?”

“Fuck, man, we have to consider some maybes,” Poussey says.

“Well, I want to consider that maybe we’ll make it.”

Poussey snorts.

“Optimism. That’s cute.”

“You’re being a real asshole right now,” Brook says.

“I’m just being my usual jaded asshole self,” Poussey says, and Brook’s eyes widen in—realization? Pain? Poussey doesn’t know, and she doesn’t stop to consider, her next words already falling out of her mouth.

“If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Brook shakes her head stubbornly.

“I can’t just leave—“

“Sure you can,” Poussey cuts her off. “Just go back to doing laundry and starting bullshit strikes and not showering or whatever the fuck you did before this.”

“Don’t do this,” Brook says, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” Poussey says petulantly.

“You’re shutting me out, but I didn’t _do_ anything this time—“

“Not everything’s about you, ok!”

Brook makes an offended noise.

“Stop pushing me away! I’m your girlfriend, I want to be here for you.”

“You were a fun distraction, Soso. That’s it.” Poussey says. She feels like her face is set in stone, incapable of expressing any emotion but implacable dislike.

“That’s…not true,” Brook says. Her voice has gone soft, and she’s looking at her almost mournfully. “You’re just saying that to get me to go away.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m obviously saying it to get you to fuck off, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Poussey says. “Just stop bothering me and go away.”

“You don’t mean that. You—you saved my life,” Brook says. Poussey thinks, _regretting that now,_ but the words are too harsh and untrue to get out of her mouth.

“Just leave me alone,” she says instead. Brook wavers, swaying back and forth in her seat.

“Leave,” Poussey says again, and Brook does. For a moment, Poussey stares at the nightstand, eyes locked on the place where Brook’s hand rested before she walked away.

She forces herself to look away. Ignores the burning behind her eyes. Hopes for sleep.

\---

She doesn’t sleep. Not well, and not for long.

\----

Lunch next day is an awkward affair. She doesn’t tell anyone about the actual fight, and she doesn’t think Brook does either, but nonetheless everyone knows that _something_ happened between them. Brook arrives early and sequesters herself away to a table in the far back corner. Given how crowded the cafeteria is, it’s almost impressive that she managed to find a place to sit with empty seats on either side. She looks like the perfect picture of a lonely high school student sitting alone during lunch period.

As Poussey waits for the kitchen worker to bring her a plate, she turns to Cindy and Taystee.

“Can you guys, uh, sit with Brook?” Poussey asks.

Cindy shrugs and heads over in her direction. Taystee gives her a piercing look, and Poussey braces herself for a question, but she too just turns and goes over to her table.

Suzanne and Alison ate earlier, so after Poussey gets her plate she and Janae are left to find a seat a table together. 

“Aren’t you guys fighting?” Janae asks, sliding into a seat. Poussey wheels up to the side of the table that doesn’t have bolted seats.

“Yeah, but…I don’t want her to be alone.”

Janae scoffs.

“She sat alone before, I don’t see why she can’t do it again.”

“She tried to kill herself, man.” Poussey says, annoyed. “Have a little compassion.”

“I’ve got plenty compassion,” Janae says. “I just only have it for certain people.”

“Maybe try and have it for my—“ Poussey cuts herself off. “Just forget it.”

They eat in silence for a moment. Poussey looks between the heads to try and catch glimpses of Brook at the other table; it’s hard now that there’s so many more people, but every now and then a woman shifts and she can see her face. She looks pale and drawn, poking at her food with a fork. Poussey’s stomach twists. She’s the one making her look like that.

Unsettled, her gaze turns to Taystee; she doesn’t look much better. She makes an effort to smile at whatever story Cindy’s telling, but even from across the room Poussey can tell that she’s not really paying attention. She almost regrets asking Taystee to sit at the other table—simply sitting next to her could usually make Poussey feel a little better—but then the memories rush back in a sickly wave. Fading in and out of consciousness, Taystee’s sobs, her hand on her back, spine exploding with pain—Poussey clenches her eyes shut.

“Hey, you ok?” Janae asks. Poussey reluctantly opens her eyes to look at Janae. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Poussey says. Janae bites her lip, deliberating.

“Look, can I be real with you a moment?” she finally asks. Poussey nods warily.

“We’re friends, and I was terrified that your last memory of me would be me talking shit about your girlfriend,” Janae says. “Like, pants-shittingly terrified. I stand by what I said, but I want us to be cool.”

Poussey chews her food. Swallows. Janae looks at her, cocks her head.

“We are cool, right?”

“I don’t know, man,” Poussey says. “Do you really stand by what you said? Because you said a lot of shit.”

“I’m just telling it like it is.”

“No, telling Cindy that’s she’s being a dumbass when she’s made one too many jokes is ‘telling it like it is’,” Poussey says. “Some of the shit you said? It was just mean for no good reason.”

“I got a right to be mean,” Janae retorts, jabbing her fork for emphasis. “This fucking place is driving me crazy.”

“This place is driving all of us crazy!” Poussey snaps, a sudden, unexpected anger welling up inside her. “Don’t take that shit out on us, okay. Run, breathe, meditate, do sit ups in the middle of the night or whatever the fuck you need to do, but don’t be cruel.” Poussey clenches her fist, looking down at her food.

“There’s enough cruelty in here already.”

Janae nods jerkily and goes back to eating. Their section of the table is silent, but the indistinct noise of the cafeteria still pounds into Poussey’s eardrums. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe away the exhaustion gnawing at the corners of her mind. She fails.

She opens her eyes and keeps eating.

\----

Poussey sits in the rec room and watches some kind of home improvement show, eyes drooping with exhaustion. Alison had come by earlier, and they made small talk for a while, but she eventually had to go for something or other. Poussey doesn’t know if she made up an excuse to get out, and doesn’t really care.

The home improvement show ends and another nearly identical one begins, except this time the host is blonde. As the cheesy theme song comes to a close, the door opens, and Suzanne enters.

Poussey raises a hand in greeting, and Suzanne nods at her, distracted. Poussey turns back to the TV.

Her pulse picks up for a quick second, but settles soon after. Seeing Suzanne was hard at first too, knowing that she was trying to help her when the guard turned on her, hearing her wails in the distance as she struggled to pull air in her lungs. But those feelings didn’t last long. Maybe because she didn’t feel as guilty about having those feelings in the first place.

The thought sticks in her head. She really has to talk to Taystee.

“You and your girl fighting?” Suzanne asks, and Poussey shakes away that thought. In the background, the TV goes to commercial.

“Something like that,” Poussey says. Suzanne nods solemnly.

“I have had my fair share of prison romances too,” Suzanne says, in a _I know what that feels like_ tone of voice. “Or well, crushes. Very few actual relationships. If any. What would you say constitutes a relationship?”

“I don’t know, man, there are loads of things.”

“Sex, right?”

“That’s one of em.”

Suzanne nods as if in deep thought

“What else? Would you say an above-average amount of eye contact is part of it? What about leaving you peppers when they go? That’s gotta count for something.”

“Maybe? Shit, man, every relationship is unique, you gotta define it for yourself,” Poussey says. She runs her tongue across her teeth and huffs out a breath. “For me, it’s about having a connection with someone. Wanting to hang out with them and talk with them and joke around with them. And knowing that they want that with you too. And even when they’re not there, you keep wondering what would happen if they were, what they would do or say or how they would react, and even the boring things are interesting because it’s _her_ doing them.”

She coughs, looking away. Her blood pulses, half with sadness, half with rage—at who, she doesn’t know. Maybe Ferguson. Maybe Bailey. Maybe herself.

“Yeah, shit like that,” she finishes anticlimactically.

“Oh,” Suzanne says. “I don’t think I’ve had any prison romances then.”

Suzanne bites at her fingernail, staring off into space. She doesn’t seem too eager to talk, and Poussey, throat tight, is all too willing to oblige her. The home improvement show comes back on; Poussey picks up the remote and clicks it off.

\----

Eventually the walls of the rec room begin to shrink, weighing on her like a physical pressure, and she has to be somewhere else. She heads back to her dorm, knowing that she’ll spend less than an hour there before she feels antsy again and returns to the rec room.

On her way back, she sees Brook through the door of the laundry room. She’s staring at her with wide eyes, and Poussey’s hands clench convulsively against the wheels. She almost loses control and hits a wall, but she redirects herself in time, turning a corner without looking back.

Tomorrow is Brook’s day to be her OCA. That will be torture.

Or maybe she won’t be her OCA—maybe Brook already went to Caputo and requested to be taken off that duty. Maybe she’ll stop sitting with them at lunch, stop forcing conversation, stop hanging on the fringes of their group. Maybe they’ll run into each other in the hallway and Brook will stare at her with hard eyes, chin tilted up in defiance, looking at her the way she used to look at Leanne.

It’s distance. It’ll help in the long run, when she’s languishing in some other prison. It was what she was aiming for when she grabbed their conversation and steered it straight into the ground like a kamikaze aircraft.

Still, Poussey thinks, throat stinging, fingers curling into a fist. Still.

\---

Later that day, Janae tells her that the prison finally found a nurse that is cheap and not under investigation for malpractice. They’re told to be in Healy’s office at four. Janae drops her off a little late, makes a trip to retrieve important health papers from Taystee’s office, and comes back before the nurse arrived.

At 4:25, if Healy’s clock is still accurate, a guard opens the door and ushers an unfamiliar man into the room; as soon as he sees her, his eyes light up.

“Hey, my name is Ryan Lewis and I’ll be your nurse!” He says, approaching her with an extended hand. “I am so excited to be working with you.”

“Yeah, ditto,” Poussey says, and as she shakes his hand she looks him up and down.

He’s Black, lanky, and wearing a starched floral button-down, khakis, and gleaming brown shoes. The smattering of acne across his face makes him look like a teenager, although Poussey guesses he’s probably in his mid-twenties. His broad smile shows off a mouth of crowded teeth and creates deep creases in the corners of his eyes; he’s odd-looking, in a charming kind of way, and his enthusiasm seems at least somewhat genuine.

“Let’s start slow,” he says, releasing her hand. “Just some basic exercises that you probably already did during your hospital stay. And while we do that we can chat, maybe get to know each other a little better.”

He turns to Janae, still smiling.

“So you’re one of the OCAs! How exciting. We’ll be having a meeting later about your duties, but right now I’d really appreciate it if you left Ms. Washington and I alone.” 

Janae narrows her eyes, but she obeys without comment. Ryan smiles at her back as she leaves, and then turns back to Poussey, his smile dropping a couple watts from blinding to bright.

“I find it’s much better to have the first session one-on-one,” he explains.

“You’re the boss,” Poussey says, and he laughs.

They run through a couple exercises that leave Poussey pained and frustrated. After anything she does, her nurse just smiles and says “good, you’re doing good,” in an obnoxiously patient voice. He insists on being called Ryan no less than five times, once even after Poussey actually had called him Ryan, and accompanies any failure with an anecdote of another patient who failed, but worse.

After about an hour of that, his watch beeps. He looks down at it, a surprised look on his face.

“Well, it’s time for me to skedaddle.” He chuckles. “How time flies.”

Poussey stretches her arms above her head, feeling strangely satisfied. She had expected to tolerate a distracted and underpaid nurse, but she can’t help but like Ryan. It seems like they actually made progress in her recovery, and she feels comfortable with him, a stark contrast to her relationship with any prison authority.

“So, I’ll see you this Friday?” Poussey asks, letting her arms fall to her sides.

“Oh, no,” Ryan says, looking apologetic, and Poussey’s stomach drops. “That wouldn’t work with my schedule, so we’re only going to be meeting on Tuesdays. I thought they told you.”

“Oh,” Poussey says. “So will we be having more hours, or…?”

“I’ll only be able to meet for an hour, actually,” Ryan says. “I would love to come in for more, but you know, duty calls.”

“Right,” Poussey says darkly. He pats her on the shoulder and bids her goodbye, and she makes a low noise of acknowledgement. Seemingly unperturbed, he smiles as he leaves, throwing a peppy “see you again soon!” over his shoulder.

Poussey, now alone in an empty room, thinks back to how she got out of the hospital earlier than the nurses suggested; how the prison’s planned schedule was the bare minimum; how this new schedule is less than half of that. And despite her best efforts to keep her mind away from this train of thought, she thinks of the brightly colored pamphlet she received at the end of her stay, declaring in purple letters that inadequate therapy could leave her with permanent damage.

Poussey rubs her sore legs. There always has to be a fucking catch.

\---

On her way back from the appointment, they cross paths in the hallway again. Poussey is wheeling past a stairway and Brook stops at the top, one foot on the platform and the other on the first step down. They lock eyes for a second before Poussey pulls her gaze away, putting her hands to the wheels and—

“Tell me to leave you alone again,” Brook says.

“Listen, I don’t want to talk—“

“Poussey,” Brook interrupts. “Tell me to leave you alone.”

“What?”

“Just tell me. Please.”

“Leave me alone.” Poussey says.

Brook nods decisively.

“Right. As you wish,” she says, and taking a deep breath, she throws herself down the stairs. She flails and seems to try to catch the railing on the way down, but her hand slips and she tumbles backwards. After a long half second of rolling down the stairs, her back hits the ground with a thud at in front of Poussey.

“Ow.” Her voice is small.

“Ok, what the fuck?” Poussey asks. Brook sits up, rubbing her head.

“Uh, have you not seen The Princess Bride?”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“Shit,” Brook says, and to Poussey’s horror she can hear the tears in her voice. “It’s a movie and that scene is so romantic and the boom box worked last time so I thought I’d borrow another movie scene to make it up to you. I don’t know that many romantic movies, ok, and—“

“Wait, wait—“

“—And my back hurts a lot now and it’s pointless because you still hate me and you’re the one good thing I have.” She looks up, and yep, there are tears. “Had?”

Poussey sighs and motions Brook towards her. Sniffling, she shifts onto her knees and moves closer to Poussey, stopping just short of touching her. It’s strange looking down on her, Poussey reflects. They used to be around the same height, but in her chair Poussey is constantly looking up. She can see the top of Brook’s head, and notices one strand breaking the pale line of her hair part; she has to fight the urge to fix it for her. She breathes deeply.

“Have, baby, of course you still have me,” she says, opening her arms. Breaking out into a watery smile, Brook stands up and wraps her arms around Poussey’s neck. After a moment, she tentatively shifts down, looking at Poussey for permission. She nods, pulling her closer, and Brook curls up on her lap, knees pressed against an armrest.

“I wish you wouldn’t shut me out. You know you can talk to me, right?” Brook asks into Poussey’s shoulder, her breath tickling her collarbone. “I wish you would tell me what’s going on. It isn’t fair to expect me to know what to do if you don’t even tell me.”

“Mhm,” Poussey hums into Brook’s hair. She smells like commissary deodorant and flowers, and Poussey can’t trust herself to speak.

“I want to be there for you,” Brook says. “You were there for me in the lowest point of my life.”

Before she can answer, a guard at the end of the hallway yells “hey”, and they both look up. Poussey can see the guard’s brain working; she doesn’t want to do anything serious to the prisoner who had been crippled under their watch—bad publicity.

“Ok, ladies, keep it moving,” she says, and walks away. Brook makes no move to untangle herself from her grip, so Poussey doesn’t move either.

“We’ll talk later, I promise,” Poussey says past the tightness in her throat. “I won’t shut you out again. And don’t throw yourself down any more stairs, ok? That shit’s just kinda weird.”

\---

The next morning, Brook comes to her room in the morning, smiling tentatively in the doorway. Poussey smiles back.

They go to the showers together, chatting quietly. Caputo still hasn’t offered up any accessible options, and Poussey’s starting to smell a little rank, so they’ll just have to figure out something on their own.

“I’m not sitting on the ground,” Poussey says. “I didn’t survive nearly being crushed just to die from picking up a disease through my ass.”

“Right,” Brook says. “Maybe we could do, like, a sponge bath situation?”

Poussey shakes her head.

“You know what, this wheelchair is probably waterproof. Just wheel me in and let me do my thing normally.”

It takes more maneuvering than she expected, but they do eventually get her wheelchair into the shower. She can take off her own shirt, but she can’t manage her pants. After a minute of struggling, she grabs onto the armrests and lifts herself up, and Brook shimmies off her pants and underwear. She feels a tendril of shame uncurl in her stomach, sharp and sickening, and for a moment Poussey wishes Janae was her only OCA. 

Poussey says nothing as Brook leaves the shower. She twists the knob jerkily, accidentally turning it too hot, and then twists it back down to a nicer temperature. She breathes deeply, letting the warm water flow down her back, and wills the shame away; they just made up after a fight, now is not the time for another issue.

Plus there are plenty of other issues to occupy her mind. The whispers of the other inmates. Bailey’s return at the end of the week. Clearing the air with Taystee. Talking to Caputo about staying in Litchfield.

The Taystee problem is daunting—there’s too much to lose if she messes up—but she can at least try to deal with Caputo today.

\----

After lunch, Brook goes back to her bunk and Poussey wheels herself to Caputo’s office. As she waits in the side room, she runs through imaginary conversations in her head. She needs to convince Caputo to let her stay in Litchfield. Would he listen if she just said she wanted to stay with her friends? Would he believe that a change in environment would be damaging to her fragile psyche?

Before she can decide whether or not crying would be beneficial, the door opens.

Poussey looks up, expecting that Caputo has come to retrieve her; Instead, Ferguson strides forward, hair strangely mussed. She doesn’t look up, tapping intently on her phone.

“Ms. Ferguson?” Poussey calls out, plastering a look of polite interest on her face. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Linda stops at the door, but doesn’t look up from her phone.

“Hm? What? I’m busy.”

“I wanted to talk to you, about the prison transfer?” Poussey asks

“Prison transfer?” Finally, she looks up. “Oh, no, that was shelved almost as soon as it began.”

“Oh,” Poussey says.

“Sorry for any inconvenience this might cause,” she says mechanically. “Have a nice day.” She leaves, eyes already snapped back on to her phone.

Well, shit. That settles that. If it wasn’t what she actually wanted, Poussey would almost be offended by how easily MCC gave up on getting her decent accommodations. Though given how easily they gave up on pretending to discipline the guard who almost killed her, she probably shouldn’t be surprised.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Caputo asks. His tie off-kilter, and the back of his yellow shirt is untucked from his pants. Poussey valiantly tries to keep an expression of surprise and disgust off her face.

“Nah, I changed my mind,” she says. Caputo gives her a piercing look, but utters a quick “fine” and returns to his office.

Poussey sends Taystee a ‘ _you’ve got to be fucking kidding’_ look.

Taystee looks back— _now you see what I have to deal with._ A moment passes, and they both erupt into laughter.

\----

Maybe Caputo’s strange and unprofessional sex life was what they needed to break through the tension between them, because after that the conversation flowed a little easier. The end of Taystee’s work duty came quickly, and within half an hour they found themselves making their way down the hallway back to Poussey’s dorm.

After they’ve run out of ways to shit talk Caputo, Poussey gathers her courage.

“We should probably talk.”

There might have been a stumble in Taystee’s gait, but Poussey can’t tell for sure.

“We’re talking now,” Taystee points out.

“No we aren’t,” Poussey says. She can hear Taystee sigh behind her.

“Oh, that kind of talk,” she says. They turn a corner and suddenly they’re back the dorm. Taystee opens the door and Poussey wheels herself in.

“So,” Taystee says, closing the door behind her. “I know shit’s been kinda weird between us, or whatever, so let’s clear the air so we can get on with our lives.”

“A’ight,” Poussey says, and waits for Taystee to start. She paces the room, looking agitated, before finally coming to a stop in front of Poussey again.

“So what happened was total bullshit,” she says. “I got a little fucked up in the head, y’know, and it took some time to adjust to seeing you and not thinking of what happened.”

“But you’re good now?” Poussey asks. Taystee hesitates.

“I think so. Maybe. I don’t know.” She looks to the side, and says, voice cracking, “I thought you were dead, P. That shit don’t go away so soon, no matter how much I’d like it to.”

“Fuck, man, was I really that bad off?”

“I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty scary. He got you pretty bad, and even after we knew you survived the night we didn’t know if you were gonna make it.” Taystee clasps her hands together and twists them restlessly; her eyes are shining. “God, it was like RJ all over again. But, like, worse, because I was seeing it happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Poussey says, unsure of what else to say.

“You got nothing to be sorry for, P.” Her voice is choked.

“Not sorry, like, sorry I got my ass squashed by a guard. But sorry you had to go through that.”

“Probably worse for you than it was for me,” Taystee says, taking a deep breath to compose herself.

“I wasn’t conscious the whole time,” Poussey says uncomfortably. “But for the part I was, yeah, it was pretty much fucking awful.” She licks her lips, eyes darting to Taystee and away, unsure of where they want to land. “I remember feeling your hand on your back and hearing you. Remembering that shit hurt a lot too.”

“Fuck, man, what do I even say to that?” Taystee asks. Poussey shrugs.

“I don’t think anything can be said. It’s just there.”

“Is it hard for you to be around me?”

 _No_ springs to Poussey’s lips, but she lets it die in her mouth.

“It was at first,” Poussey admits. “But everything was hard at first. And it’s getting better. T, you’re my best friend, and I don’t want to stop being around you. You bring more good than bad to my life. You always have.”

Taystee laughs wetly.

“Even when I stole the last copy of _The Little Prince_ from under your bed so I could read it?”

“Shit, you trying to ruin the heartfelt moment?” Poussey asks, laughing. “Yeah, even then. I still want that back, though.”

“Ugh, fine,” Taystee says, sighing in a put-upon way, before lifting her arms. “Hug it out?” Poussey lifts her own arms, and Taystee leans down and wraps Poussey in a tight embrace. Poussey grabs fistfuls of her shirt. She can feel Taystee’s breath on her neck, the subtle trembling of her arms around her body. The fabric of her sweatshirt itches the underside of her chin.

“Damn, if you keep me down here forever I’m gonna get back issues,” Taystee says eventually, and Poussey releases her. Taystee coughs, taking a step back, before looking at her seriously.

“And what you said,” she says, “Same to you, P.”

“I missed you a lot,” Poussey says quietly, ardently. Taystee smiles.

“Is this a ploy to get another hug?”

“Shit, you saw right through me,” Poussey says. “I thought I was so subtle.”

Taystee doesn’t go in for another hug, but she does put a hand on Poussey’s shoulder and squeezes it. Poussey breathes in deeply; the prison air tastes stale, but it fills her lungs with a sweet strength.

\----

They’re sitting in Brook’s bunk, cross-legged, knees pressing against each other. Two worn, white towels hang from the upper bed frame, granting them privacy. An inmate in the next bunk mutters to herself; the air conditioning whirs on above them. Otherwise there’s silence. They each took a book from the library, Poussey choosing an old science fiction novel and Brook grabbing a trashy romance novel she thinks was donated by an octogenarian with some fucked up kinks. Slants of lights filter in through gaps in the towels, giving them just enough illumination to read.

After half an hour of silent reading, Brook closes the book and rests it against her legs, fiddling with the corner of the page nervously. Poussey, eyes trained on her own book, doesn’t look up.

“Poussey?”

“Hmm?”

“You remember after I threw myself down the stairs like an idiot?”

“Kinda hard to forget, yeah.”

“You said we would talk later.” Brook pauses, giving Poussey a meaningful look as she lifts her head. “I think now is later.”

Poussey sighs, rubbing her wrist against her eye, before putting her book down.

“Yeah, I guess. But _later_ is also later.”

“Do you not want to talk about it?”

“No, I do,” Poussey says, almost surprised by how much she means it. “We need to talk shit like this out. I do, at least.”

“Me too,” Brook says, sounding relieved. “So how do you want to start? Should we, like, take turns?”

“Let’s not plan it out, let’s just talk.”

“Ok, I’ll start.” Brook takes a deep breath. “I didn’t like what you said. You said some…mean things. It just didn’t sound like you.”

“It wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, since I was the one saying that shit, but it wasn’t, y’know, _me._ I just say stupid shit sometimes. I know that’s not an excuse—”

“No, no, I don’t care about that,” Brook says. “Well, I mean, I do care about that, but I’m also, like, the master of saying stupid shit, so it’s fine. I just don’t understand _why.”_

Poussey lifted a shoulder and dropped it, too tense and jerky to pass it off as a casual shrug.

“I’ve had some experience with having to let people go. And it’s easier if I push them away first. Fucked up in the short term, but better in the long run. I’m not saying it’s good, but it is what it is.” Poussey looks at Brook, who’s nodding solemnly along as she listens to what she says; her heart squeezes.

“But why were you even trying to let me go in the first place? I never did anything that made you thought we were gonna break up. I mean, I didn’t, right?”

“No, no,” Poussey says, rubbing a hand reassuringly over Brook’s shoulder. Brook grabs it and holds it.

“Okay, don’t tell anyone else, but I almost got transferred to another prison,” Poussey says. “I thought I was gonna go to a new place, with new people, and with a fucking wheelchair. And without you.”

Brook smiles tremulously at her, squeezing her hand.

“If you gave me another couple days I probably would’ve flipped my shit at Caputo or someone,” Poussey admits. “I can push people away pretty well, but I’m fucking awful at pushing away my own feelings. But before I could, you rushed in like a white knight or something and nipped that shit at the bud.”

“Not really a white knight,” Brook says, shrugging. “More like a dread pirate.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but ok.”

“This isn’t even a vague pop culture reference!” Brook yelps. “Everyone’s seen it! You’re the weird one here, not me!”

“Uh, quick reminder, who was it that threw themselves down the stairs?”

Brook pouts. Poussey grins, feigning remembrance.

“Oh right! It was you. Yeah, that pretty much settles the weirdness debate.”

Poussey leans in for a kiss, and Brook reciprocates enthusiastically, running her hands over the sides of Poussey’s neck and pulling her deeper. After a moment, they draw back. Brook’s smile flickers, and at Poussey’s concerned look, falls apart completely.

“You okay?” Poussey asks. 

“What does this mean about our future?” Brook’s eyes are suddenly wide and beseeching.

“Oh, shit, guess I forgot to say,” Poussey says. “I’m not getting transferred. That shit fell through faster than a tissue paper kite on a rainy day.”

“Not just that,” Brook says. “I mean, that’s awesome as well. Well, maybe not awesome for you, because the wheelchair accommodations here really are horrendous, I meant awesome for me. And now I’m realizing that sounds super selfish, so I’m sorry about that.”

As soon as there’s a pause, Poussey cuts in—“It’s cool, I get it. What did you mean?”

“I meant this argument. How is that gonna affect our future?”

Poussey flounders.

“Our future? Why does…why does this have to affect our future?”

“I’m just thinking…you’ve tried to shut me out before, and I know that was my fault, but I thought we had gotten through that. And then you started doing it again…is this what’s it’s going to be like? Every month or so you try to push me out of your life and I have to fight to stay in it?”

“No, baby, god no. I only do that shit when I think someone’s leaving anyway.”

“I’m not gonna leave,” Brook says, a high note of desperation in her voice.

“I know, I know,” Poussey says as she gently winds her arms around Brook’s neck; Brook leans forward and rests her head on Poussey’s shoulder, her arms winding around her waist. Brook’s weight is awkward and unwieldy, and Poussey thinks she might fall over for a second, but she grips tighter and leans forward until she finds a tentative balance.

“I would fight if I had to, though,” Brook says. “I would fight every single time to stay in your life. No matter how many times you tried to push me away.” Brook giggles awkwardly and wiggles out of Poussey’s arms, eyes locked on the mattress.

“God, that probably sounds like I’m some creepy stalker.”

“Hey, no, that doesn’t sound creepy at all,” Poussey says, throat tight. “It actually really makes me want to kiss you.”

Brook answers by enthusiastically pressing her lips against Poussey’s. Poussey rubs her thumb against Brook’s neck as the kiss deepens, turns quick and demanding, until finally breaking as they both pull back for air. 

“Thanks for trying to keep me,” Poussey says, her voice sounding embarrassingly high and breathy in her ears.

“You’re probably the best thing in my life right now,” Brook says. “I’m not gonna let that go so easily.” Poussey smiles and they kiss again, slow and gentle this time.

They pull back slightly, their lips hovering centimeters from each other as they breathe in the musty air mixed with the other’s breaths. It’s strangely intimate, Poussey thinks, and as soon as the thought crosses her mind the moment breaks. They draw back farther and Poussey’s hand slips off Brook’s shoulder onto her leg. Their eyes meet and Brook smiles impishly.

“Actually, scratch that, I think you’re second best thing. I love the new toothpaste they have in commissary.“

“Shit, man, beaten out by toothpaste,” Poussey laughs.

“It whitens your teeth in 14 days. Recommended by 9/10 dentists,” Brook points out.

“Well, I’m recommended by 1/1 of your girlfriends. That’s a better percentage.”

“The sample size is too small, I think we need more data points.” Brook laughs as Poussey pokes her in the side. “Your results are skewed!”

Poussey responds by pulling her in for another kiss, and the investigation into faulty statistics is thoroughly abandoned.

\---

Despite those brief shining moments of joy, the majority of Poussey’s life falls into a dull routine. Over the next three days, the boredom threatens to overshadow the pain. Her friends still have work duty, and OCAs are only required to be with her for so many hours a day, so she’s mostly left to her own devices. When she isn’t eating or sleeping, Poussey spends most of her time in the rec room watching various cooking shows. Other inmates trickle in and out, but they’re reluctant to demand control of the TV, and more reluctant to talk to her, so they don’t last long. The Wiccans are forced to meet in there biweekly since “outside gatherings” are banned, and Poussey amuses herself by listening to the drama and infighting. She wonders who would win in a fight, Leanne or Gina. Leanne is aggressive, Poussey thinks, but Gina has a certain squirrely energy that shouldn’t be underestimated.

Of course, her friends come by as often as they can, which isn’t often. Their days are filled with work; even with the increased amount of inmates, the guards are testy and all too willing to make more work for them. Suzanne once had to wash the bathroom three times in one day because a guard kept shaking out his muddy boots. Poussey doesn’t envy her yet, but she’s so bored that she wonders if eventually that day will come.

Whenever Suzanne finds time to visit her in the rec room, she works on her new favorite hobby—arranging dominoes, dots up, in an attempt to make pictures. Taystee tries to be supportive, and Poussey can usually find one or two things to say about the value of abstract art, but Cindy and Janae are less than encouraging. Alison says nothing, but her pointed looks imply she agrees with Cindy and Janae.

There’s rarely anything exciting to talk about; mail, phone calls, and visitation are all temporarily suspended, so gone are the main sources of inmate gossip. Most of the good stuff is discussed at mealtimes, so time in the rec room is more often than not spent in companionable silence. Occasionally the others will have a story from their day that they don’t want to wait until dinner to tell, but Poussey never has anything exciting to add.

Except, one day, she does.

“I got a letter,” Poussey says, turning the envelope over in her hands. All the eyes turn to her.

“I thought all correspondence was banned,” Alison says. “You got a secret postal service tunnel system we don’t know about?”

Suzanne looks up from her dominoes.

“A fleet of well-trained and loyal carrier pigeons,” she suggests.

“I thought those went extinct,” Alison says. Suzanne shakes her head.

“No, you’re thinking of polar bears.” She taps her head knowingly. Janae mouths _what_ at Cindy, who snickers.

“Okay, those are all good ideas, and I’ll keep em in my back pocket,” Poussey says. “But Caputo gave it to me himself. I think the fucker still feels bad.” Brook’s nose wrinkles.

“God, you don’t think it’s an apology letter, is it?” Brook asks.

“Probably just hospital bills,” Taystee says, idly clicking to another channel on the TV.

“Damn,” Cindy says. “You got $10,000 laying around? Because that’s what they fine you for sneezing in a hospital’s general direction.”

“Ugh, healthcare in this country is really inadequate,” Brook mumbles.

“True,” Poussey says absentmindedly, shifting the letter in her hands. “But it feels too light to be bills.” She stares down at it, deliberating, before finally opening it.

The note is short:

_Dear Ms. Washington,_

_The news is silent on your fate. The prison is trying to cover it up. But I’m here, and I hear you. I can make others hear you too._

_Please, put me on your visiting list so we can talk._

_Sincerely,_

_Olivia Wright, Reporter_

As the TV drones on in the background, Poussey rereads the letter, once, twice, three times. She stares at the handwriting for a bit, but that too is unrecognizable. Confused, she hands the letter off to Taystee, who starts to read it.

“Some random woman wants me to put her on my guest list,” Poussey explains to the others.

“What? Do you not know her?” Brook asks.

“No, you see that’s why I used the word random,” Poussey says. “It’s this interesting concept where I use words that have specific meanings to express those meanings.”

“Fascinating,” Brook says. “Tell me more.”

Poussey snorts. 

“No, I’m serious, please tell me more about this woman,” Brook says, and Poussey laughs again, Brook’s shy giggle joins her.

“Stop flirting and give us the deets,” Alison cuts in.

“Nothing much to say,” Taystee responds instead, handing the letter off to Janae. “She doesn’t even say who she is.”

“Think it’s a scam or something?” Janae asks, taking the letter warily.

“Don’t think so,” Taystee says, frowning. “Doesn’t ask for money, at least. Also, if Caputo gave you her letter, she can’t just be any random pyramid schemer off the street.”

“So, are you gonna put her on the list?” Brook asks. All eyes turn to Poussey.

“I don’t think we’re allowed to have visitors anyways,” She says uncomfortably, taking the letter back from Janae. She folds it up and sticks it in her pocket.

“That won’t last forever,” Suzanne says solemnly. She frowns. “Probably.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Poussey says.

In the background, Ina Garten starts making Filet Mignon with mushroom sauce. Suzanne goes back to shuffling her dominoes around, almost childlike in her determination. Alison begins a droll retelling of an experience with a rather excited inmate who was crawling under stalls in the bathroom. Janae says something to Brook, her face tense but friendly, and Poussey knows her well enough to see that she’s making an effort. Brook blooms under the attention, beautiful and bright, and Poussey wants to kiss her. Then Taystee laughs at something Alison says, throwing her head back, and she’s beautiful and bright too, so much that she seems to shine with it—Poussey can feel almost feel the light reflecting back on her, and she thinks she could listen to Taystee laugh forever.

And then rec room fades away. Poussey thinks of Suzanne, terrified and manhandled by guards in crisp uniforms. Alison, her eyes distant as she talks about her daughter. Janae, tense and snappish after a too-long session at the shu. Brook, motionless on the library floor, and then later at the lunch table, quiet and foggy and wanting to die. And of course, she thinks of Taystee. Taystee, with tear tracks down her face, not one moment in time but dozens, every time Poussey has seen her best friend cry because of a world that’s just too damn cruel. And then Poussey thinks of herself, mourning and drinking and choking within a prison for nothing more than a little weed and unintentional trespassing.

All the while, the letter sits in Poussey’s pocket, pressing against her leg, burning in her thoughts like an ember.

She thinks it might start a fire, one day. She thinks she might let it.


End file.
